WITHIN  MY  HORIZON 


H ELEN  B ARTLETT  B'RI  DGMAN 


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THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 

PRESENTED  BY 
CARROLL  PURSELL 


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HELEN    BARTLETT    BRIDCAIAX 


WITHIN  MY   HORIZON 


BY 

HELEN  BARTLETT  BRIDGMAN 


ILLUSTRATED  FROM 
PHOTOGRAPHS 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1920, 

By  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

(incokpobated) 


TO 

FORREST  HALSEY 

WITHOUT  WHOM  THIS  MIGHT 
NEVER  HAVE  BEEN 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Helen  Bartlett  Bridgman       .      .      .      Frontispiece 

"  Little  Nelly  " 10 

"John" 48 

"  Mother  " 166 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I     In  a  Lichi  Nut i 

II     I  Am  Born  and  Bred 6 

III  An  Old-Fashioned  Childhood  ...  14 

IV  Keene  the  Beautiful 24 

V    The  First  Flight 30 

VI     Marriage 38 

VII     At  Guffanti's 47 

VIII     Rus  in  Urbe 52 

IX     Woods  of  Arden 57 

X     Men  of  Action 63 

XI  The  Artistic  Temperament       ...  72 

XII  Notable  Women  Writers  yy 

XIII  Rudyard  Kipling 89 

XIV  The  Mandalays 95 

XV     Richard  Hovey 106 

XVI     The  Dirge 114 

XVII     A  Word  About  Travel 119 

XVIII     The  Land  of  the  Sky 126 

XIX     Peaks  of  Travei 134 

XX     Java 148 

XXI     Southern  India 154 

XXII     The  Prince  of  India T59 

XXIII  My  Mother  and  My  Gems     ....  165 

XXIV  Zona   Gale 170 

XXV     Peary 179 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXVI     On  Sea  and  Land 185 

XXVII     In    the    Balkans   "  Just   Before   the 

War  " 192 

XXVIII     Picking  Up  Lost  Threads     ....  204 

XXIX     A  Dainty  Vagrant 209 

XXX     Grand  Opera 216 

XXXI     Gems  in  the  Sky 225 

XXXII     The  Wonder  of  Storm 233 

XXXIII  Smell  of  the  Green 237 

XXXIV  Dream 240 

XXXV    Love 243 

XXXVI     The  Poet's  Will 246 

Appendix     "  Lyddy,"  by  Theodore  Bartlett  (the 

Story  That  Won  the  Prize)  .     .  248 


WITHIN  MY  HORIZON 


IN    A    LICHI    NUT 

Once  upon  a  time  a  Mighty  King  fell  ill.  Recov- 
ery from  his  evil,  said  the  Learned  Physician,  could 
come  to  his  Majesty  only  through  wearing  the  shirt 
of  a  Contented  Man.  So  messengers  were  sent  forth, 
and  at  last,  after  many  days  and  many  leagues,  near 
those  formidable  peaks  which  shut  out  lands  of  snow 
from  lands  of  sun,  the  Contented  Man  was  found  and 
lo,  he  had  not  a  shirt  to  his  name ! 

Hacc  fabula  docct:  contentment  comes  not  from 
without  but  from  within. 

One  morning,  in  the  midst  of  the  coal  panic  and  the 
war,  this  truth  came  home  to  me,  when  I  discovered 
that  out  of  a  lichi  nut,  costing  nothing,  I  could,  if  I 
would,  obtain  such  a  world  of  delight. 

I  was  melancholy.  Only  a  ton  of  coal  of  the  wrong 
size  in  the  cellar  and  the  air  so  sharp!  I  begged  an- 
other of  the  right  size  and  was  curtly  refused.  So  I 
took  to  wraps,  and  a  dull  asbestos  grate,  dull  because 
the  gas  works,  too,  needed  coal.  I  felt  very  blue,  in- 
deed, huddled  in  one  room,  with  many  colder  ones 
around. 

Then  there  came  a  special  providence  in  that  lichi 
nut.     You  know  it  —  a  rough  reddish-brown  husk,  as 


2  Within  My  Horizon 

easily  broken  as  an  egg-shell,  and  inside  a  fruit  rather 
than  a  nut.  The  gentle  cynic  with  whom  I  live  can 
not  feel  the  magic  of  it  —  he  snubs  it  as  "  a  measly 
raisin  around  a  big  seed."  It  does  resemble  a  raisin, 
but  it  is  far  from  contemptible.  On  the  contrary,  it 
is  wonderful.  Instantly  it  transformed  the  bleak  house 
and  avenue  into  a  comfortable  steamship  gliding  on 
the  Pearl  River  from  the  Anglo-Chinese  port  of  Vic- 
toria to  the  amazing  city  of  Canton. 

Many  years  before,  towards  the  close  of  December, 
just  in  from  Nagasaki  and  the  stormy  Yellow  Sea, 
everything  seemed  as  cold  and  dreary  as  now.  That 
Christmas  and  Shanghai  half  a  world  from  home  are 
not  a  happy  combination  you  must  concede.  Yet 
when  at  last  we  entered  the  entrancing  mountain-girt 
harbor  of  Hongkong,  the  picture  was  changed  as  by 
sleight-of-hand.  Imagine,  these  forbidding  days  of 
our  latitude,  the  days  in  which  the  Old  Year  with  sighs 
and  groans  gives  birth  to  the  New  —  imagine  on  all 
sides,  instead  of  leafless  trees,  bare  brown  fields,  ice 
and  snow,  the  most  vivid  green,  air  as  balmy  as  our 
June  and  a  dulcet  stream  sparkling  in  the  radiant  sun ; 
rice  paddies,  lusty  in  wet  nourishment,  far  as  eye  can 
see,  and  everywhere  a  wealth  of  subtropical  vegeta- 
tion hung  with  fruits,  flowers  and  nuts.  All  this  rich 
beauty  the  Pearl  River  invades  with  the  confidence  of 
a  conqueror,  carrying  upon  its  breast  every  kind  of 
craft,  fine,  foreign,  modern,  not  less  than  the  native 
sails  of  woven  grass,  often  as  ragged  as  the  garments 
of  a  beggar. 

Oh,  the  wonder  of  that  day's  journey;  the  charm  of 
being  the  only  passengers,  the  three  of  us,  I  the  only 


In  a  Lichi  Nut  3 

woman,  on  a  boat  which  might  have  been  our  yacht  — 
idly  drifting  into  the  heart  of  Cathay. 

At  tiffin  came  those  double  hot-water  plates  which 
in  America  are  associated  almost  exclusively  with 
Welsh  rabbit  or  some  special  dish  requiring  a  contin- 
uous high  temperature.  In  the  Orient  there  is  always 
time  to  take  pains  —  to  bring  every  art  as  close  as 
possible  to  perfection.  The  various  courses  were 
served  by  soft-footed  Chinese,  and  each  was  the  best 
of  its  kind,  but  it  is  the  dessert  which  lingers  in  my 
memory.  That  consisted  of  crystallized  ginger  and 
lichi  nuts. 

You  never  know  at  the  time  what  definite  object  will 
haunt  your  mind.  Not  once  did  it  occur  to  me  that 
henceforth  China  would  mean  to  me  not  pottery,  pig- 
tails, pagodas ;  not  teakwood,  temples  and  tombs ; 
neither  Confucius  nor  curved  roofs;  not  even  jade, 
wrested  from  the  wrists,  ears,  hands  and  hair  of  the 
humbler  blue-garbed  folk  —  but  that  pearl  of  rivers; 
that  quiet,  restful,  sun-flooded  deck ;  that  swish-swash 
against  the  steamer's  hull  of  a  lazy,  lapping  stream,  a 
stream  penetrating  an  unexpected  world  of  living, 
breathing  verdure ;  and  finally  that  which  focussed  and 
explained  it  all  —  the  lichi  nut. 

Taste  one  and  see  what  happens !  A  young  friend 
who  has  crossed  neither  Atlantic  nor  Pacific  under- 
stands by  sheer  sympathy.  Tier  thumb  crushes  the 
shell,  she  bites  the  fruit,  heavy  with  its  peculiar  flavor 
and  fragrance,  languorous  as  a  cocktail,  luxurious  as 
Hungarian  wine,  and  instantly  rise  up  before  her  quaint 
little  women  with  slanting  eyes  and  refined  hands,  the 
smallest,  sweetest  hands  in  all  the  world,  and  alien  men. 


4  Within  My  Horizon 

leading  an  existence  far,  far  from  this  rushing  world 
of  ours.  She  closes  her  eyes  a  moment  and  then  says : 
"  I  see  it  all.  You  need  tell  me  nothing.  It's  enchant- 
ing, but  is  it  right?  " 

It  is  wholly  Oriental  —  that's  what  it  is.  The  per- 
fumed food,  rich,  drugged,  mysterious,  makes  you  re- 
member when  you  would  forget  and  forget  when  you 
would  remember.  Everything  is  a  million  miles  from 
the  thought  and  the  habit  hereabouts,  and  there  is  deep 
incongruity  in  its  entrance  at  Christmastime  —  the 
memorial  of  one  whose  basic  principle  was  conflict  with, 
rather  than  surrender  to,  the  things  of  the  senses;  one 
who  would  struggle  not  only  with  the  snare  of  the 
houri  but  the  inertia  of  Nirvana.  There  is  where  the 
West  and  the  East  can  never  meet ;  for  the  one  makes 
a  god  of  action  while  the  other's  heaven  is  cease- 
less repose.  The  lichi  nut  in  the  New  World  visual- 
izes the  undying  struggle  between  sentiment  and 
service  —  between  him  who  dreams  and  him  who 
does. 

But  I  believe  I  set  out  to  say  that  to  celebrate  your 
holiday  properly  you  need  not  be  a  millionaire.  To 
be  sure,  somebody  might  ask  the  awkward  question : 
"  How  much  did  it  cost  to  eat  that  first  lichi  nut  on 
t'other  side  of  the  globe?  "  Yet  even  so  I  stick  to  my 
guns  and  reiterate  that  it  is  possible  to  be  happy  though 
married  and  with  a  limited  income  in  the  expensive 
hemisphere.  The  philosophers  declare,  "  We  are  not, 
we  only  seem."  In  other  words,  the  idea  is  more  real 
than  the  thing.  A  palace  might  fail  where  a  pipe 
would  arrive. 


In  a  Lichi  Nut  5 

So,  if  Santa  Claus  has  not  been  kind  to  you,  do  not 

repine,  but  look  the  New  Year  in  the  face  with  a  brave 

smile,  and  remember  the  Search  for  the  Shirt  of  the 

Contented  Man. 


II 

I    AM    BORN    AND    BRED 

My  arrival  on  earth  was  a  small  matter  to  the  earth, 
of  course,  but  much  to  my  mother  and  me  —  that  dear 
mother  whom  I  still  can  hear  saying  in  her  firm,  sweet 
way,  especially  when  the  spring  came  on  and  I  pined 
for  something  "different":  "Count  your  blessings, 
little  Nelly,  count  your  blessings !  " 

In  time,  this  I  came  to  do.  I  learned  to  be  thankful 
for  every  phase  of  life,  harsh  and  kind,  good  and  not  so 
good ;  since  each  taught  me  something,  through  disci- 
pline or  delight,  and  all  brought  me  the  realization,  as 
mother  said,  that  happiness  is  not  a  strange,  distant 
thing,  to  be  obtained  some  time  en  bloc,  but  a  flower 
at  one's  feet,  to  be  picked  or  kicked,  treasured  or  de- 
spised, according  to  one's  bent  or  intelligence.  While 
I  have  been  a  contented  woman,  had  I  continually 
dwelt  on  what  the  Lord  did  not  see  fit  to  bestow  on  me, 
I  might  so  easily  have  been  the  reverse.  As  so  many 
are  now  saying,  but  not  really  believing,  the  greatest 
thing  in  the  world  is  not  what  millions  think  it  is, 
money  and  the  pleasures  that  spring  therefrom,  but 
Love  —  the  love  that  serves,  that  goes  out  from  our- 
selves to  others,  seeking  no  selfish  end.  Practically  we 
must  be  somewhat  selfish  or  die,  but  morally,  until  self 
shall  be  eliminated,  until  nothing  is  considered  save  the 
other's  need,  we  do  not  in  the  true  sense  live. 

6 


I  Am  Born  and  Bred  7 

I  was  born  in  Milwaukee,  but  if  you  asked  me  sud- 
denly, likely  I  should  answer :  Keene,  New  Hampshire. 
For  it  was  there,  in  my  mother's  old  home  town,  that 
the  ten  impressionable  years  from  seven  to  seventeen 
were  beautifully  passed.  They  say  that  home  is  where 
the  heart  is;  but  before  seven  a  child  has  no  heart  —  it 
is  merely  a  little  bundle  of  physical  wants  and  fleeting 
impressions. 

My  primary  recollections  of  Wisconsin  necessarily 
are  vague.  From  Milwaukee  my  brother  and  I  were 
taken  to  Saint  Croix  Falls,  whose  water  power  had 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  Attorney-General  of  the 
United  States  sufficiently  for  him  to  invest  in  it 
heavily.  For  three  years  my  father,  Frederick  Kin- 
lock  Bartlett,  a  promising  member  of  the  Boston  bar, 
and  after  that  something  of  a  political  power  in  Wis- 
consin, had  received  a  salary  of  $10,000  a  year  for  cer- 
tain difficult  legal  services  connected  with  getting  this 
property  out  of  chancery  and  into  a  clear  title.  He 
had  bought  land  too,  and  was  fatuously  dreaming  of 
the  life  of  a  grand  seigneur,  in  this  desolate  frontier 
town  which  he  believed  to  be  on  the  eve  of  a  boom. 
I  nder  this  illusion  he  had  built  for  himself  at  the  head 
of  the  grassy  slope  above  the  falls  (where  years  later 
I  stood  on  the  solid  foundation  surviving  its  devasta- 
tion by  fire)  an  expensive  residence,  the  materials  for 
which  had  to  be  brought  across  the  State  of  Wisconsin 
from  Milwaukee  and  up  the  two  rivers  Mississippi  and 
Saint  Croix. 

It  proved  a  wild  undertaking,  for  before  the  great 
task  of  utilizing  the  water  power  was  even  begun  — 
and  who  knows  if  there  was  one  chance  of  success?  — 


8  Within  My  Horizon 

my  father  died.  He  died  a  convert  to  Roman  Catholi- 
cism, which  he  had  embraced  a  few  years  before,  con- 
tending that  it  was  the  only  logical  creed,  and  in  his 
last  hours  regretting  that  he  could  not  live  long  enough 
to  see  his  son  a  priest  and  his  daughter  a  nun.  As  all 
his  people,  and  my  mother's,  were  Unitarian,  his  wishes 
were  disregarded,  though  eventually  I  joined  the  Epis- 
copal Church,  which  at  least  responded  to  my  love  of 
color.  The  particular  creed,  provided  it  be  sincere,  is 
to  me  a  matter  of  indifference. 

Father  became  a  Catholic  through  reading  in  the 
original  French,  of  which  he  was  a  master,  a  continuous 
abuse  of  that  faith.  This  perversity  in  inclining  to  the 
object  under  attack  is  an  inheritance  from  him  and  also 
from  my  mother's  father,  in  full  force  to  this  day. 
They  say,  you  know,  that  while  dead  fish  float  with 
the  current,  only  the  live  swim  against  it ! 

Our  forefathers  on  both  sides  of  the  house  migrated 
to  Xew  England  long  before  the  Republic  was  founded, 
and  none  seemed  to  have  gone  farther  afield.  The 
Shaws  came  to  England  from  Scotland  and  John  Shaw 
was  knighted  there  in  1485  for  military  services  on 
Bosworth  Field  in  the  War  of  the  Roses.  One  of  the 
clan,  in  the  earlv  eighteenth  century,  depressed  by  some 
disfavor  from  his  sovereign,  had  the  courage  to  seek 
America,  where  in  this  new  land  his  descendants  be- 
came important.  Major  Shaw  served  in  the  Revolu- 
tionary Army.  He  was  a  shipbuilder  of  Bath,  Maine, 
where  he  made  a  large  fortune,  only  to  lose  it  under 
the  Embargo  Act.  His  daughter  Eleanor  married  Dr. 
Benjamin  Dixon  Bartlett,  the  president  of  the  Medical 
College    at    Bangor,    who    became    my    grandfather. 


I  Am  Born  and  Bred  9 

Originally  the  Bartletts  were  Normans,  the  name 
spelled  Barttelot,  and  fought  in  the  battle  of  Hastings. 

My  mother's  family  was  Scotch,  north  of  Ireland 
and  French-Huguenot,  the  names  Alexander,  Fuller 
and  Conant,  but  while  good  citizens  and  patriots,  there 
is  no  noble  blood  there,  except  in  one  small  instance. 
From  the  Scotch  Alexanders  I  have  the  right  to  the 
motto,  among  land  and  water  creatures,  of  "  Per  Mare 
Per  Terras,"  which  may  explain  my  fondness  for 
travel.  But  this  is  little  beside  the  imposing  coat  of 
the  Shaws,  when  the  first  knight,  Sir  John  Shaw,  was 
allowed,  along  with  other  heraldic  devices,  the  formid- 
able battle-cry  used  by  his  followers,  "  IN  THE 
NAME  OF  SHAW." 

Aside  from  the  excitement  of  the  first  serious  differ- 
ence with  brother  Theodore,  something  that  shook  my 
small  world  to  its  fundament,  papa's  pride  in  my  abil- 
ity to  lift  if  not  drink  a  glass  of  wine  with  the  assem- 
bled guests  at  table,  and  one  ignominious  maternal 
spanking,  which  filled  me  with  thoughts  murderous.  I 
have  no  distinct  recollection  of  Saint  Croix.  I  was  but 
little  more  than  a  baby,  yet  towards  the  close  of  that 
nebulous  condition  came  a  vague  realization  that  this 
life  is  not  all.  Suddenly  something  seemed  to  happen  ; 
I  saw  my  father's  tall,  beautiful  form,  a  form  that  in- 
stead of  giving  way  at  thirty-eight  should  have  lasted 
long,  lying  white  and  still  in  its  winding-sheet,  the 
dark,  curling  hair  framing  a  face  of  marble  —  and 
though  I  was  but  three  I  remember  the  fear,  the 
strangeness,  the  solemnity,  to  this  hour. 

It  was  almost  the  last  day  of  December,  and  the  body 
was  taken  by  fellow  Masons  (  father  was  a  past- master 


10  Within  My  Horizon 

in  that  society)  through  a  severe  snow-storm  to  Hud- 
son, Wisconsin,  where  in  the  picturesque  cemetery  on 
the  hill  we  owned  a  lot,  and  at  the  base  of  the  hill  a 
cottage,  soon  to  be  our  home  for  a  year.  But  that 
winter  was  passed  in  the  great  half-empty  mansion 
where  father  died,  and  a  winter  under  such  conditions 
in  that  frigid,  lonely  land  is  no  joke.  Indians  went  by 
regularly,  pressing  their  noses  against  the  window- 
panes,  frightening  us  well  at  first  but  doing  no  harm. 
My  mother  made  the  best  of  everything,  according  to 
her  delightful  mental  habit,  and  we  children  were  happy 
enough,  drawn  successfully  over  the  snow  in  a  sled 
improvised  out  of  a  champagne  basket.  Finally  the 
postmaster  called,  curious  about  this  nondescript  fam- 
ily dumped  suddenly  on  a  simple  community,  and  ex- 
pressed astonishment  at  the  rare  and  beautiful  things, 
books,  pictures,  jewels,  furnishings,  gowns,  piled 
helter-skelter  in  the  dismantled  rooms,  and  all  belong- 
ing to  the  little  woman  in  a  hood  who  so  long  and  for- 
lornly had  inquired  for  letters  that  seldom  came. 

In  the  spring,  as  soon  as  navigation  opened,  mamma 
left  to  hunt  a  house  for  us  in  Milwaukee.  While  she 
was  gone  brother  fell  seriously  ill  with  dysentery. 
Good  Cousin  Sarah,  a  beloved  young  woman  of  twenty- 
three,  not  over  intelligent  but  faithful  as  a  dog,  fol- 
lowed to  the  letter  the  explicit  directions:  "If  sick- 
ness comes,  never  send  for  that  country  doctor,  but 
read  the  medical  book  and  give  little  pills."  Mother 
was  an  enthusiastic  homeopathist  as  well  as  hydro- 
pathist,  both  wonderful  new  things  then,  after  the 
rigors  of  the  old  school ;  and  it  is  a  fact  that  the  doctor- 
less  boy  survived  many  stricken  children  around  him ; 


LITTLE   NELLY 


I  Am  Born  and  Bred  11 

but  it  also  is  true  that  a  year  later,  in  Milwaukee,  when 
cholera  infantum  attacked  the  same  child,  the  distin- 
guished physician  asked  sternly:  "Why  did  you  call 
me  so  late?  "  the  boy  then  pulling  through  only  by  a 
close  margin. 

The  year  in  Milwaukee  contained  no  notable  fea- 
tures, but  it  at  least  was  human.  Old  friends  there 
were  for  mother  and  their  children  for  Theodore  and 
me.  Nevertheless,  it  was  the  life  of  a  distracted  young 
widow  with  no  confidence  in  a  weird  administrator 
who  quietly  pocketed  the  insurance  on  the  Saint  Croix 
house  the  neighbors  said  he  set  on  fire ;  a  widow  with 
no  clear  outlook,  no  fixed  plans,  yet  of  decided  char- 
acter, great  personal  beauty  and  charm,  and  absorbed 
in  her  children.  Mother  was  highly  industrious  in  a 
domestic  way,  but  while  she  could  save  money,  she 
could  not  make  it,  and  was  bound  to  be  the  prey  of 
those  whom,  in  her  utter  lack  of  business  knowledge, 
she  trusted.  A  legal  complication  sent  us  flying  the 
following  year  to  the  nest  awaiting  us  in  Hudson,  which 
was  only  partly  furnished,  our  normal  condition  at 
that  period,  for  while  always  keeping  house,  thank 
God,  we  seemed  unable,  through  no  fault  of  our  own, 
to  "  stay  put."  But  the  place  contained  an  old-fash- 
ioned garden,  which  was  to  become  for  me,  in  its  pinks, 
portulaccas  and  syringas,  its  roses  and  mignonette,  to 
say  nothing  of  two  trees  with  a  swing  between  them, 
the  garden  of  the  world! 

The  sad  beauty  of  another  Arctic  winter  we  faced 
with  insufficient  everything,  and  with  a  temperature 
that  made  mother  stretch  out  her  arms  at  night  to  make 
sure  our  ears  and  noses  were  not  frozen.     Of  this  I 


12  Within  My  Horizon 

remember  only  the  snow  up  to  my  neck,  which  seemed 
a  matter  of  course,  and  at  the  end  of  a  long  dark  period 
the  balm  of  a  sudden  spring,  with  the  marvelous  com- 
ing up  of  the  flowers ;  and  later  a  grand  platter  of  honey 
in  the  comb  —  the  grocer  kindly  loaning  the  platter,  for 
again  a  move  was  imminent.  Also  I  remember  ears  of 
green  corn,  of  which  as  guests  in  a  humble  house  we 
ate  so  much  that  we  were  ashamed,  and  the  hostess 
leaving  the  room  for  a  time,  Cousin  Sarah,  ostrich-like, 
threw  the  cobs  out  of  the  window.  Among  solemn 
things,  I  remember  a  baptism,  an  all-over  immersion  in 
the  river;  and  when  I  was  six,  left  behind  at  church- 
time,  I  surreptitiously  did  up  my  hair  after  the  manner 
of  a  past  age,  plastered  over  the  temples  and  straight 
behind  the  ears  into  a  tight  knot,  a  style  I  unaccount- 
ably admired,  and  in  the  midst  of  service  paraded  up 
the  aisle  alone,  to  the  intense  mortification  of  my 
mother,  who  took  her  revenge  by  having  it  cut  short 
thereafter  for  seven  long  years.  Think  of  it  —  my 
beautiful  brown  hair,  with  the  sunshine  running 
through  it,  and  the  curl  which  was  Nature's  own! 

These  were  the  little  personal  things,  but  oh,  the 
hills,  and  the  sweet  mystery  of  the  woods,  where  dan- 
gling honeysuckles  grew,  and  the  wide  reaches  of  the 
prairie  beyond  the  hills,  radiant  with  tiger  lilies!  And 
somewhere  along  the  way  was  a  farm,  and  a  mug  of 
warm  milk  straight  from  the  cow,  which  turned  my 
little  "  tummy  "  sick.  Then,  I  remember  nothing  at 
all  to  eat  for  two  long  days,  at  the  end  of  which  Spar- 
tan discipline  a  kind  lady  brought  me  a  fine  big  ripe 
blackberry  in  a  thimble ! 

One  day  in  September  we  sailed  away  on  such  a 


I  Am  Born  and  Bred  13 

long,  long  journey,  made  tolerable  only  by  constant 
promises  of  delights  to  come  in  the  home  of  the  fairy 
grandfather  who  had  snatched  us  out  of  a  cold  world, 
and  with  whom  we  were  to  be  happy  ever  after, —  and 
so  at  last  life  began. 


Ill 

AN   OLD-FASHIONED    CHILDHOOD 

Life  with  me  began  as  a  boy.  I  never  cared  for 
dolls.  Only  the  exploits  of  two  lively  families,  housed 
with  their  gowns,  their  crockery  and  their  furniture  on 
the  lower  shelves  of  a  convenient  bookcase,  held  for 
me  any  interest  at  all,  and  that  solely  because  my  chum, 
the  daughter  of  a  clergyman  to  whom  the  outfit  be- 
longed, possessed  the  knack,  since  developed  into  first- 
class  fiction,  of  keeping  up  a  running  commentary  on 
the  little  people's  doings  that  created  illusion.  Beside 
this  thing  of  life  and  action  the  wax  or  wooden  images 
lugged  around  by  children  seemed  absurd. 

Not  only  did  I  care  nothing  for  dolls  but  I  cared  little 
for  clothes.  By  both  men  and  women  have  I  been  up- 
braided for  a  lack  of  vanity.  Vanity,  I  am  told,  is  not 
a  fault  or  a  weakness,  but  a  stimulant,  the  absence  of 
which  is  to  be  deplored.  'Tis  true,  'tis  pity,  but  while 
a  stickler  for  cleanliness,  I  always  have  been  fond  of 
my  old  clothes ;  new  ones  do  not  seem  to  be  mine  until 
I  have  worn  them  some  time  —  the  joy  of  putting  them 
on  straight  from  the  dressmaker  I  never  have  known. 
Here  I  am  like  a  man :  what  attachment  equals  that  of 
a  man  for  his  old  clothes?  Yet  men  tell  me  I  am 
strikingly  feminine  —  so  there  you  are  !  I  am  tempted 
by  fine  materials,  by  beautiful  lines,  by  the  changeless 
art  of  the  Orient;  and  I  desire  to  look  well  in  the  eyes 

14 


An  Old-Fashioned  Childhood  15 

of  those  I  love  —  but  fashion  per  se  has  stood  to  me 
for  a  weary  and  stereotyped  institution  which  all  the 
world,  and  especially  New  York  City,  would  do  well 
without.  Just  think  of  the  time  and  money  a  woman 
wastes  in  trying  to  excel  others  and  make  herself  what 
she  seldom  can  from  without  —  beautiful. 

But  sermons  about  clothes,  as  has  wisely  been  said, 
are  of  no  avail  to  women.  Argument  they  rarely 
heed,  advice  they  sometimes  take,  praise  they  absorb, 
no  matter  how  ill-deserved ;  but  criticism  of  their 
clothes  is  like  grain  upon  the  sea  —  notwithstanding 
the  fact  that  no  matter  how  many  styles  come  forth  not 
one  is  free  from  discomfort.  It  speaks  well  for  Amer- 
ica that  in  the  interregnum  due  to  the  war  our  women 
were  more  logically  and  healthfully  dressed,  and  for  a 
longer  consecutive  time,  than  most  of  us  ever  have 
known.  France  with  her  long,  tight  corsets,  her  high 
heels  and  pointed  toes,  her  commercial  passion  for 
every  novelty  and  caprice,  has  been  the  worst  foe  to  the 
health  of  womankind  —  one  might  well  say,  to  the 
American  race  itself;  for  every  injury  to  woman  is 
harmful  to  the  child.  Few  have  the  courage,  the  nerve 
or  the  strength  to  swim  against  the  tide;  and  Fashion, 
to  most  women,  is  as  remorseless  a  master  as  Death ; 
therefore,  lucky  it  is  that  for  four  years  at  least,  even 
though  the  price  paid  was  monstrously  high,  our  poor 
racked  bodies,  to  say  nothing  of  ransacked  purses, 
were  comparatively  free  from  attack.  Our  young  men 
were  dying  for  us,  alas !  but  we  were  wearing  what  we 
wanted  to,  walking  without  pain  and  breathing  freely. 

Fortunately,  in  that  small  town  of  Keene,  it  was  easy 
enough  to  follow  the  call  of  the  wild.     Little  did  my 


16  Within  My  Horizon 

brother  do  that  I  did  not  do  with  him;  and  in  this 
mutual  living  he  grew  gentler  and  I  stronger.  My  re- 
lations with  him  were  almost  romantic;  I  doubt  if 
brother  and  sister  ever  loved  each  other  more ;  I  don't 
remember  one  cross  word ;  and  on  shipboard  more  than 
once,  the  ships  of  the  Great  Lakes,  Puget  Sound  and 
the  Pacific  Coast,  he  was  taken  for  my  fiance.  Ah, 
but  if  he  had  not  died  so  young,  what  a  lover  for  some 
fair  lady,  what  a  gallant,  sympathetic  knight  he  might 
have  become!  Even  as  it  was,  before  he  was  taken 
away  by  that  malignant  typhoid  which  so  feeds  on  and 
fells  the  youth  of  our  land,  more  than  one  woman 
cared  for  him.  He  too  was  buried  in  the  sweet  Hud- 
son cemetery,  beside  our  father;  and  if  his  body  could 
have  been  cremated,  as  was  mother's,  all  of  us  might 
lie  together  at  the  base  of  those  New  Hampshire  hills 
we  loved  so  well.  Yet  what  matters  it,  when  to  live 
in  the  heart  and  mind  of  one  dear  to  you,  one  who 
guards  your  name  and  memory  well,  is  to  live  more 
vitally  than  ever  before? 

Yes,  from  the  time  we  reached  Keene,  I  lived  the  life 
of  a  boy  —  I  was  brother  to  my  brother.  On  the 
Ashuelot  and  on  many  a  pond  we  skated  together, 
studying  not  only  the  svelte  outer  edge,  but  the  pace 
itself,  throwing  the  foot  sideways  instead  of  back- 
wards, that  the  minimum  of  effort  might  attain  the 
maximum  of  grace  and  power.  In  Milwaukee,  at  the 
rink,  there  was  a  dainty  American  skater,  Kitty  Hoyt, 
and  a  robust  German-American,  Lulu  Goetz,  and  of 
these  two,  while  liking  both,  Theodore  used  to  prefer 
Lulu  Goetz,  and  when  I  asked  him  why.  he  answered 
that  it  was  because  she  had  "  such  a  luscious  swing  " 


An  Old-Fashioned  Childhood  17 

about  her.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  he  ranked  me  in 
the  rather  cold,  if  skillful,  Kitty  Hoyt  class  —  there 
was  not  enough  venture  to  me :  I  know  I  never  quite 
forgot  the  possible  cracked  skull. 

On  this  same  New  Hampshire  river,  in  summer  we 
rowed  the  long  slender  wherry,  I  learning  at  last  how 
to  feather  properly  the  graceful  spoon  oars,  whose 
beautiful  stroke  made  all  ordinary  oars  seem  tame,  and 
fettered  ones  altogether  despicable.  This  lovely  River 
Ashuelot  made  Theodore  a  swimmer,  but  that  accom- 
plishment was  not  mine  until  again  we  were  living  in 
Milwaukee.  How  grateful  I  am  to  good  old  Rohn, 
whose  school  was  on  the  Milwaukee  River  just  above 
the  dam,  for  teaching  me  so  well  —  such  a  fine  stroke ; 
how  to  float  easily  in  any  position  and  to  tread  water ; 
but,  alas !  I  never  had  the  courage  save  once  for  a 
dive.  Even  the  straight  jump  from  a  dizzy  height  I 
did  not  dare  twice  after  a  lad  I  knew  became  per- 
manently deaf  through  ruptured  eardrums.  Rohn 
had  a  standing  joke  on  me  because  when  I  was  free 
from  the  rope,  three  weeks  after  I  began,  I  tried  to 
float  on  my  back  even  as  he,  and  like  him,  while  so 
doing,  to  whistle.  Each  morning  after  that  when  I 
went  in,  he  would  throw  out  his  big  chest  and  roar  out 
his  big  laugh  and  ask :  "  How's  the  vistling,  Mees 
Bartlett,  how's  the  vistling?" 

Water  was  something  like  a  passion  with  me.  From 
babyhood  my  portion  has  been  a  cold  bath  before 
breakfast  throughout  the  year.  Mother  believed  in 
it  profoundly;  and  there  is  no  likely  spot  in  Keene's 
Beaver  Brook,  in  the  dangerous  depths  below  the  Falls, 
in  the  lovely  natural  stone  basins  above  them,   then 


18  Within  My  Horizon 

shaded  thickly  as  a  forest  pool,  but  now  sacrificed  to 
the  State  Road,  that  has  not  known  me  —  not  to  for- 
get sequestered  lakes  everywhere.  Fresh  water  is  my 
delight ;  but  from  the  harshness  of  the  salt,  and  espe- 
cially the  insult  of  the  surf  —  deliver  me ! 

Often  we  went  far  afield,  sometimes  with  lunch-bas- 
kets on  our  arms,  climbing  the  long  hills  which  in  win- 
ter we  slid  down  on  sharp-nosed  pickerels,  no  fear  in 
our  hearts,  whatever  the  height  of  the  jounces,  while 
girls'  sleds  and  girls'  ways,  feet  in  front,  we  scorned. 
In  summer  we  fished  in  the  brooks  and  ponds;  caught 
poor  little  minnows  in  a  handkerchief;  dace,  sunfish, 
delicious  bull-heads,  our  catfish,  with  line  and  hook,  and 
Theodore  speared  suckers.  How  often  have  I  heard 
him  sing  out :     "  'Ucker,  'ucker,  'pear  'im,  'pear  'im  !  " 

On  one  august  occasion  I  alone  conquered  an  eel, 
though  the  battle  was  fearful  and  it  nearly  squirmed 
in  again;  and  every  string  of  fish  we  proudly  carried 
home  was  by  our  dear  mother  as  proudly  fried.  No 
fried  fish  since  has  tasted  like  that  fried  fish ;  crisp,  dry, 
yet  rich  and  savory  —  except  once  in  a  native  inn  at 
Shidzuoka,  Japan.  The  Japanese  are  artists  in  fish, 
because  they  cook  it  slowly  and  long.  Their  little 
squares  of  raw  fish,  too,  in  spicy  pickled  flavor  are 
culinary  delights. 

How  many  times  since  have  I  pitied  the  children 
brought  up  in  streets  of  stone,  and  said  so  publicly 
without  knowing  until  a  few  days  ago  that  De  Quincey 
had  been  before  me  in  dubbing  the  city  a  "  stony- 
hearted stepmother."  In  that  joyous  youth,  simple 
almost  beyond  belief,  I  never  woke  in  the  morning 
without  a  keen  sense  of  anticipation  as,  to  be  honest,  I 


An  Old-Fashioned  Childhood  19 

do  often  to  this  day.  It  might  be  no  technical  pleasure 
at  all,  no  concrete  expectation,  unless  some  little  thing 
promised  or  hoped  for  accentuated  the  vague  general 
feeling;  but  whatever  it  was,  whether  of  earth  or 
heaven,  it  came  as  something  delightful  in  store  for 
me,  and  throughout  my  whole  being  rushed  a  special 
glow. 

Mother  did  not  believe  in  house-plants,  and  when 
not  in  school  it  was  outdoors  all  the  time,  no  matter 
how  the  rain  fell,  the  winds  blew  or  the  thermometer 
flirted  with  zero.  To  this  and  the  plain  wholesome 
food,  which  we  had  to  eat  or  go  without,  I  owe  my 
lifelong  health.  While  not  robust,  I  have  seldom  been 
even  slightly  ill  —  and  how  many  can  say  that  ? 
Along  with  this  regimen  went  the  public  school  educa- 
tion, in  which  my  democratic  grandfather  fully  believed 
and  which  justified  his  belief.  A  decade  of  such  in- 
struction in  a  New  England  town  under  admirable 
teachers  is  no  small  boon. 

My  grandfather,  a  man  of  standing  in  Keene,  presi- 
dent of  banks  and  the  first  president  of  the  Ashuelot 
Railroad,  now  amalgamated  with  the  Boston  and 
Maine,  a  road  he  was  instrumental  in  building  and 
which,  as  a  link  in  the  journey  to  Xew  York,  meant  a 
good  deal  to  Keene,  made  a  small  fortune  in  the  whole- 
sale wool  business  and  in  real  estate.  lie  transformed 
the  entire  northern  section  of  the  town  from  a  swamp 
into  comfortable  little  homes  for  the  poor.  He  had  a 
strong  conviction  that  every  man,  rich  or  poor,  should 
own  his  own  fireside,  and  without  pauperizing  the  hum- 
ble folk,  using  as  much  as  possible  of  their  labor  in  the 
building  of  these  dwellings,  he  succeeded  in  establish- 


20  Within  My  Horizon 

ing,  by  a  roof  over  their  heads,  the  first  step  towards 
independence  —  to  him,  and  to  all,  the  most  important 
thing  on  earth.  The  sad  tramp  of  these  grateful 
friends  past  the  bier  of  the  man  who  had  loved  and 
believed  in  them  lasted  for  hours.  The  press  said  at 
the  time  of  his  death : 

"  John  H.  Fuller,  Esq.,  was  a  native  of  Walpole,  N.  H., 
and  when  comparatively  young  came  to  Keene  and  estab- 
lished himself  as  a  merchant  here  and  lived  and  labored  to 
the  end  of  his  long  life,  and  died  in  the  midst  of  his  labors, 
having  attended  to  his  usual  business  up  to  the  eve  of  his 
departure.  It  is  probable  that  no  business  man  was  so  well 
known  as  Mr.  Fuller.  In  our  railroad  and  financial  institu- 
tions he  was  a  leading  mind,  while  our  churches  and  schools 
have  all  been  the  recipients  of  his  bounties,  and  to  the  poor 
he  lent  willing  hands  and  valuable  counsel.  In  his  removal 
the  town  loses  one  of  the  best  of  its  citizens,  and  his  children 
a  counsellor  whose  wisdom  they  never  questioned." 

Grandfather  Fuller  was  rather  a  remarkable  man  in 
his  way,  refined  and  punctilious  in  manner  and  dress, 
with  the  natural  courtesy  of  the  aristocrat,  which  by 
birth  or  conviction  he  was  not.  I  well  remember  the 
fine  materials  of  his  clothes,  and  his  love  of  his  horses 
and  carriages.  He  was  the  kind  of  man  who  in  a 
modern  city  would  have  rejoiced  in  his  club,  if  the  men 
were  genial  and  interested  in  the  questions  of  the  hour, 
and  his  fondness  for  dancing  continued  into  old  age. 
Yet  he  was  also  reserved,  highly  sensitive  and  with  a 
temper  of  his  own.  He  was  noticeably  abstemious,  did 
not  care  for  meat,  and  whether  that  had  anything  to 
do  with  it  or  not,  he  went  to  his  death  at  seventy-seven 
with  a  full  set  of  perfect  teeth  which  had  never  known 
a  cavity;  though  one  was  broken  and  all  slightly  ground 


An  Old-Fashioned  Childhood  21 

down  by  the  action  of  time.  This  broken  tooth  saved 
his  life  in  a  serious  illness,  when  nursed  by  one  who 
was  an  adoring  friend  as  well  as  hired  man.  On  the 
watch  in  the  dead  of  night  this  attendant  observed 
symptoms  of  the  death  rigor.  He  seized  the  brandy, 
but  could  not  pry  open  the  jaws.  At  last,  finding  the 
broken  tooth,  he  dipped  cotton  in  the  fiery  liquor  and 
squeezed  it  through.  The  patient  swallowed,  choked 
and  thereby  returned  to  earth  for  many  a  long  year. 

Early  in  life  Grandpa  married  a  daughter  of  the 
Rev.  Ezra  Conant,  a  descendant  of  Roger  Conant,  who 
founded  Salem,  Massachusetts.  Ezra  Conant  was  a 
graduate  of  Harvard  College  in  the  days  when  her 
graduates  were  fewer  than  they  are  to-day.  His 
daughter  Pamela  inherited  the  beauty  of  the  Alexan- 
ders, as  did  my  mother  and  one  of  her  sisters  —  elo- 
quent dark  eyes  framed  in  abundant  hair  —  as  well  as 
two  handsome  but  unruly  sons.  Grandmother  mar- 
ried at  sixteen  and  died  at  thirty,  leaving  seven  chil- 
dren. Grandfather,  who  was  eight  years  her  senior, 
fell  in  love  with  the  young  beauty  while  she  was  at 
boarding-school,  and  offered  himself  at  once.  "  Then 
when  will  you  marry  me?  "  she  asked  archly,  and  he 
replied  promptly,  "  To-morrow." 

The  will  of  my  grandfather  left  his  property  to  his 
four  surviving  children  and  his  two  grandchildren,  my 
brother  and  myself.  I  am  the  last  of  my  race  on  that 
side  of  the  house,  and  practically  on  the  Bartlett  side, 
only  the  children  of  a  daughter  remaining;  and  when 
I  see  nations  as  they  recently  have  been,  tearing 
savagely  asunder  that  which  mankind  so  laboriously 
has  put  together,  I  can  hardly  regret  that  this  is  so. 


22  Within  My  Horizon 

If  no  better  solution  of  national  problems  can  be  found 
than  to  fly  at  one  another's  throats  every  half-century, 
the  sooner  we  are  out  of  a  world  so  tragic  and  dis- 
jointed the  better. 

Yet  I  take  this  back  when  I  consider  how  the  great 
news  came  to  us  November  7,  19 18,  and  a  hundred  mil- 
lion people,  in  sharp  and  sudden  joy,  instantly  became 
as  one.  It  makes  no  difference  that  at  the  moment  the 
glad  word  was  not  true  —  the  response  to  it  was  as  true 
as  anything  this  life  contains;  so  absolutely  true,  in  its 
overwhelming  power,  that  the  actual  fact,  a  few  days 
later,  left  one  comparatively  cold.  That  "  first  free 
careless  rapture  "  could  not  be  repeated  in  its  essence, 
for  it  and  not  the  official  pronouncement  was  the  real- 
ization of  our  hope  and  dream. 

Never  can  I  forget  the  thrill  that  ran  through  us, 
as  Swedish  Anna  served  luncheon,  when  the  storm 
broke :  the  strange,  distant,  portentous  roar,  bells, 
horns,  sirens,  everything,  with  thrice  the  force  of  that 
sublime  hymn  of  every  New  Year's  Eve,  whose  shrill 
confusion  as  it  beats  upon  the  battlements  of  our 
Brooklyn  so  miraculously  resolves  itself  into  perfect 
harmony,  becoming  less  a  thing  of  man  than  music  of 
the  gods  —  while  through  it  all,  by  some  mysterious 
instinct  breaking  the  silence  of  the  autumn,  sang  the 
birds! 

To  the  four  corners  of  this  broad  land  at  once  flashed 
the  great  conviction:  WAR  IS  AT  AN  EXD.  As 
that  "  deep  diapason,"  that  preon  of  praise,  went  on 
and  on,  seemingly  eternal,  the  awe-struck  maid  ex- 
claimed :  "  All  should  kneel  down  and  pray !  "  and 
then  burst  into  tears. 


An  Old-F 'ashioned  Childhood  23 

Next  there  was  a  rush  for  the  flag.  We  imagined 
ourselves  the  first :  but  no,  our  astonished  gaze  from 
the  housetop  met  the  colors  everywhere :  simultaneously 
from  homes  and  sky-scrapers,  from  automobiles  racing 
through  the  streets,  from  men,  women  and  children, 
burst  forth  our  beautiful  Stars-and-Stripes  —  while 
complete  strangers  grasped  one  another's  hands  and 
even  kissed  each  other. 

After  this,  how  can  one  say  life  is  not  worth  the 
living  —  since  fundamentally  we  are  all  of  the  same 
heart  if  not  of  the  same  mind. 


IV 

KEENE   THE   BEAUTIFUL 

New  England,  knowing  that  happy  mean  which  is 
neither  poverty  nor  riches,  was  a  model  for  all  who 
came  after,  in  those  early  days  when  its  men  fought 
incessantly  to  humanize  the  wilderness,  and  its  women 
baked,  brewed,  spun,  wove,  and  raised  families  of  ten. 
Later,  descendants  of  these  sterling  pioneers  emigrated 
to  the  West,  under  the  delusion  that  the  best  lies  ever 
just  beyond  —  a  good  thing  for  the  settlement  of  new 
lands,  but  hard  on  the  hearts  and  backs  of  the  more 
conservative  members  of  the  family,  mainly  the  women, 
who  cling  to  the  comfort,  sentiment  and  beauty  of  old 
hearthstones.  To-day  foreigners  are  pouring  into  the 
abandoned  farms  and  strange  languages  are  heard 
along  the  village  streets  where  once  at  worst  flourished 
the  Irish  brogue  and  that  generally  in  the  kitchen.  The 
bone  and  sinew  of  New  England  has  carried  its  ener- 
gies towards  the  setting  sun,  while  the  Old  Families 
have  flown  farther  still  —  even  to  the  moon  and  stars. 
Yet  these  proud  and  gentle  lives  were  not  lived  in  vain, 
since  their  white  hands  gave  to  the  growing  town  a 
touch  of  refinement,  their  cultivated  minds  created  an 
atmosphere;  and  to  this  day,  though  a  different  class 
rules,  no  section  of  America  is  better  governed,  under 
intelligent  civic  laws,  no  people  are  more  sober,  thrifty, 

industrious  or  more  nearly  approximate  that  human 

24 


Keene  the  Beautiful  25 

equipoise  for  which  great-hearted  men  strive  and 
which  is  the  proof  of  a  nation's  happiness,  whether 
autocracy,  plutocracy  or  so-called  democracy. 

Half  a  century  ago,  New  England  seemed  the  New 
World  expression  of  an  Old  World  idea.  In  its  de- 
cline as  a  national  feeder,  it  became  a  milestone  along 
the  way.  With  an  upper  class  that  gave  it  social  tone, 
Keene  and  many  of  its  fellows  might  have  been  the 
setting  to  the  English  country  novel  of  the  Mrs.  Gas- 
kell,  Jane  Austen,  Charlotte  Bronte  type.  While  the 
spacious  mansions  dominated  less  land,  demanded  less 
service  and  knew  no  titles,  the  people  in  such  stories 
seem  amazingly  familiar.  The  shell,  the  surface 
beauty,  is  still  here,  but  gone  is  the  essence  of  the  rose 
—  different  people  live  in  the  old  houses  and  far  dif- 
ferent walk  under  the  trees.  The  Civil  War,  the  panic 
soon  following  it,  various  circumstances  broke  the  for- 
tunes of  the  few  reigning  families,  and  blue  blood 
moved  out  as  red  blood  pushed  in.  The  change  came 
about  insensibly  but  none  the  less  surely.  Hardly  a 
representative  is  left  of  the  Dinsmoors,  Edwardses, 
Elliots;  hardly  a  tradition  of  the  manly  men  and  beau- 
tiful women  of  an  earlier  day  —  the  day  when  the 
clans  had  it  all  their  own  way  and  our  mothers  were 
wooed  by  Boston's  distinguished  sons. 

A  state  of  things  is  in  progress  here  not  less  than  in 
the  monarchies  of  Europe  which  may  make  for  the  ulti- 
mate good  of  mankind  but  which  strips  the  world  of 
much  that  is  picturesque.  In  the  seasoned  aristocracy 
of  Xew  England,  the  women  seemed  more  beautiful, 
the  men  better  bred  and  better  read,  than  is  likely  to 
occur    again.     By    their    removal    through    property 


26  Within  My  Horizon 

losses,  restlessness  or  death  —  all  those  exigencies 
Father  Time  seizes  in  his  great  levelling  process  by 
which  in  the  years  to  come  we  shall  be  as  alike  as  ten- 
pins —  the  entire  existence  and  meaning  of  these  older 
generations,  who  exerted  a  profound  influence  on  the 
imaginative  young,  is  taking  on  the  aspect  of  legend. 
In  the  eighties  rose  groups  made  rich  by  the  preceding 
national  strife,  generally  through  the  factories  within 
Keene's  periphery,  and  these  prosperous  manufactur- 
ers, with  more  money  than  education,  less  taste  than 
business  acumen,  began  to  build  expensive  piles  they 
in  no  sense  adorned,  or  acquired  the  historic  residences 
to  their  undoing.  But  these  too  passed  away,  their 
mushroom  fortunes  dwindling,  their  children  migrat- 
ing, their  real  estate,  through  the  general  lack  of  money 
and  demand,  landing  in  the  city's  hands.  Thus  both  the 
old  aristocracy  and  the  modern  plutocracy  within  half  a 
century  have  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh,  and  their  earthly 
tenements,  with  nobody  to  buy,  are  procurable  for  a 
song.  For  to  dwell  in  these  fine  houses  with  one  serv- 
ant or  none  is  to  be  laughed  at,  to  keep  a  retinue  is  im- 
possible ;  so  a  Governor's  mansion,  which  cost  $60,000, 
will  bring  for  a  Xormal  School  only  a  fifth  of  that 
sum,  while  both  buyer  and  seller  are  ashamed  to  tell  the 
price  of  a  unique  home,  rich  in  antique  furniture  and 
modern  bath  fittings,  ending  its  days  as  a  "  Lodge." 
Neither  a  metropolis  nor  a  summer  resort,  beautiful 
Keene  has  a  hard  row  to  hoe. 

But  to  me  it  still  is  the  loveliest  spot  on  earth.  It 
was  lovely  when  my  little  feet  thought  its  circumfer- 
ence a  long  day's  journey,  and  so  it  is  when  I  can  easily 
compass  its  length  and  breadth  in  an  hour.     On  three 


Keene  the  Beautiful  27 

sides  the  hills  hug  close,  guarding  jealously  its  mighty 
elms  and  mosslike  meadows,  with  the  drowsy  Ashuelot 
leisurely  winding  through,  while  to  the  southeast,  in 
full  view  twelve  miles  away,  its  flanks  covered  by  the 
virgin  woods,  its  sharp  peak  piercing  the  clouds,  in  all 
majesty  looms  Monadnock.  From  the  "  Square  "  and 
the  "  common,"  the  little  round  park  that  marks  the 
centre  of  the  town,  spread  out,  star-like,  the  five  prin- 
cipal residence  streets,  all  lined  with  great  glorious  trees 
continually  growing  greater  and  more  glorious. 

The  view  of  this  greenery  from  the  top  of  Beech  Hill, 
a  long  mountainous  ridge  overlooking  the  tall  church 
spires,  never  fails  'to  thrill  me.  Each  one  of  you,  you 
old  New  Englanders,  knows  such  a  view  as  that :  the 
heavily  embowered  town  at  your  feet,  practically  hill- 
surrounded,  with  the  tips  of  distant  mountains  in 
fainter  tints  above  and  beyond,  the  golden  shimmer 
of  midsummer  like  a  royal  canopy  over  all.  Yet  this 
wonder  of  light  and  shadow,  of  hill  and  vale,  is  subor- 
dinate to  the  penetrating  human  note ;  it  would  be  mere 
panorama  without  the  stately  homes,  permeated  with 
the  atmosphere  of  long  and  pleasant  living;  and  that 
is  why  Keene  now  is  the  saddest  place  in  the  world  to 
me  —  those  who  made  it  a  living  thing  are  no  more. 

Yet  ever  it  is  a  symbol  —  my  sweet  old  home  town. 
Since  those  happy  young  days  I  have  been  many  times 
over  pretty  much  the  whole  world,  but  Keene  has  re- 
mained the  standard  to  measure  by.  There  might  be 
Alps  or  Himalayas,  but  Monadnock  was  the  perfect 
peak ;  there  might  be  forests  more  vast,  yet  the  naked 
whiteness  of  the  birch,  the  grand  spread  of  the  wine- 
glass elm,  the  autumnal  flame  of  the  sugar-maples,  the 


28  Within  My  Horizon 

eternal  fragrance  of  the  balsams  and  pines,  were  such 
as  no  other ;  while  even  the  Isar  rolling  rapidly  did  not 
surpass  in  my  mind  the  wild  rush  of  the  Ashuelot  over 
its  rocks  in  the  wilderness.  Earth's  famous  spots,  you 
must  remember,  I  saw  in  passing;  but  with  this  varied 
beauty  I  had  lived  —  and  who  can  forget  the  spot 
where  he  first  met  nature  face  to  face  ? 

I  never  leave  Keene  without  a  visit  to  my  Fountain 
of  Trevi,  as  it  were.  In  Rome  it  is  a  thing  of  pipes 
and  marble  into  which  you  throw  pennies  and  drink 
that  you  may  return.  Here  it  is  a  living  spring  at 
the  base  of  Page's  Hill,  between  two  giant  white  pines 
that  must  have  been  old  when  the  Republic  was  young. 
Hoary  relics  of  the  forest  primeval  these  arboreal 
monarchs  undoubtedly  are,  yet  still  green  and  vigorous, 
still  protecting  the  eternal  spring  below.  Once  I 
stretched  out  my  arms  and  fairly  hugged  one  of  the 
grand  old  twins,  though  his  girth  was  several  times 
the  length  of  my  embrace.  Was  it  my  fancy  that  the 
ancient  evergreen,  left  alone  with  his  brother  these 
many,  many  decades,  felt  this  tribute  to  his  unique 
supremacy  ? 

Around  these  two  wonders  are  thick  woods  where 
all  good  things  abound :  the  crimson-studded  partridge 
vine ;  the  glossy-leaved  wintergreen,  with  its  red 
checkerberry ;  the  snow-white  fungus  known  as  Indian 
Pipe;  besides  the  sweetest  blossom  of  them  all.  the 
trailing  arbutus,  the  pink  Mayflower.  These  woods 
are  softly  carpeted  with  moss  and  pine  needles,  and  in 
their  depths  is  silence,  except  when  the  winds  blow 
and  the  tall  pines  sway  and  sigh,  making  the  music  of 


Keene  the  Beautiful  29 

the  world.  Oh,  the  vast  sweetness  of  this  life  of  the 
woods  and  hills! 

It  was  late  when  I  arrived  on  my  last  visit,  alone. 
But  you  do  not  feel  afraid  in  woods  like  these  even 
though  the  shades  of  night  are  falling  fast.  They 
seem  strongholds  of  peace  and  security.  As  I  came 
into  the  open  again,  and  stood  beneath  the  great  guar- 
dian pines,  the  west  was  like  a  Colombo  sky,  the  clouds 
that  same  wonderful  gray-blue,  the  gray-blue  of  the 
star-sapphire,  with  rose  linings.  Less  intense  in  tone 
than  those  splendid  masses  haunting  the  Indian  Ocean, 
they  yet  suggested  them  strongly,  poised  above  the 
dark  heights  of  West  Mountain. 

I  took  my  last  drink  of  the  spring,  insuring  my  re- 
turn. There  was  no  sound  save  the  chorus  of  the 
crickets,  the  occasional  sleepy  call  of  a  bird,  and  a 
child's  curving  cry  distant  enough  to  suggest  music. 
Beauty  everywhere:  in  the  sky,  the  forest,  the  air; 
under  the  pines,  along  the  line  of  the  hills,  in  the  depths 
of  that  mysterious  little  water  springing  out  of  the 
earth.  It  was  difficult  to  leave,  especially  for  New 
York,  which  is  beatiful,  like  Life,  only  in  what  you 
put  into  and  get  out  of  it  —  what  it  has  come  to  mean 
to  you.  To  me,  though  once  it  seemed  as  if  it  never 
could,  so  chaotic,  so  unkempt,  so  noisy  and  hard,  it 
has  come  to  mean  Iiome.  When  that  is  said,  all  is 
said. 


THE    FIRST    FLIGHT 

The  concatenation  of  events;  have  you  ever  given 
them  much  thought  —  how  things  come  about  as  they 
do?  Zona  Gale  once  told  me  that  all  the  luck  of  her 
life  followed  hard  on  her  offering  an  unknown  lady, 
at  a  Wisconsin  University  festival,  a  welcome  glass  of 
water.  So  I  might  declare  that  the  most  important 
happenings  in  my  life  came  from  learning  to  play  an 
instrument  I  can't  abide  —  the  piano.  To  be  sure, 
you  can  infer  from  Zona's  act  that  she  has  good  man- 
ners, and  from  mine  that  it  is  possible  for  me  to  do 
what  I  dislike  —  but  there  the  obvious  ceases. 

From  this  drudgery  in  my  girlhood,  done  merely 
because  every  girl  did  it,  came  not  only  the  mastery  of 
the  magnificent  church  organ,  whose  pedals  and  stops 
and  glorious  volume  of  sound  affected  me  like  a  phe- 
nomenon in  Nature,  but  my  first  use  in  a  public  way 
of  the  pen.  This  facility,  as  it  developed  along  a 
modest  but  well-defined  path,  brought  me  not  only  a 
world  of  delight  in  music,  notably  the  true  grand  opera 
which  so  long  flourished  at  the  Metropolitan,  but  Her- 
bert Lawrence  Bridgman,  a  dear  home  in  the  Brooklyn 
end  of  New  York,  and  the  Standard  Union,  of  which 
my  husband  has  now  been  business  manager  for  nearly 
thirty  years.  It  also  brought  me  fruitful  travel  over 
a  good  part  of  the  globe,  with  the  journalistic  corre- 

30 


The  First  Flight  31 

spondence  springing  therefrom,  but  little  more  than 
letters  to  my  family,  yet  a  boon  at  that  time  to  the 
struggling  newspaper  as  well  as  good  exercise  for  my 
struggling  mentality.  Not  only  this,  a  New  York 
home,  a  New  York  husband,  and  all  the  arts,  oppor- 
tunity to  roam  the  world,  applauded  not  derided  by 
husband  and  editor,  but  to  meet  countless  interesting 
people  among  whom  are  some  of  my  most  valued 
friends  today. 

By  accident  I  discovered  that  while  every  journal- 
ist considers  himself  a  competent  dramatic  critic,  few 
venture  with  confidence  into  music.  Here  I  found 
my  chance,  on  one  of  the  leading  papers  in  one  of  the 
most  musical  cities  in  America,  Milwaukee.  For  upon 
graduating  from  Keene  High  School,  we  were  back 
there  again,  after  grandpa's  death  our  little  trio  de- 
ciding to  tackle  life  in  the  new  West  rather  than  the 
old  East.  Milwaukee  proved  an  excellent  city  for  a 
widow  of  limited  means  with  children  approaching 
maturity.  The  symmetrical  development  from  the 
centre  made  rents  reasonable,  and  the  thrifty  German 
population,  with  ample  farming  districts  beyond,  did 
the  rest.  Without  going  through  college  my  brother 
easily  obtained  a  position,  first  as  draughtsman,  next 
as  civil  engineer,  with  the  Chicago,  Milwaukee  and  St. 
Paul  Railroad,  and  soon  was  advanced  to  a  responsible 
post  on  the  Northern  Pacific;  while  I,  as  I  have  said, 
managed  to  attach  myself  to  one  or  another  of  the 
dailies,  thus  hearing  the  best  music  and  having  the  run 
of  the  theatres  at  no  cost  at  all.  Every  Sunday 
evening,  also,  for  two  or  three  months,  I  reported  the 
extemporaneous  sermons  of  an  eminent   divine   in   a 


32  Within  My  Horizon 

piquant  way  that  instantly  crowded  the  lonely  evening 
service  to  the  doors,  and  for  this  rather  difficult  feat, 
by  memory  alone,  without  notes  of  any  kind,  they 
promised  to  pay  me  in  hard  cash,  but  I  learned  all  too 
soon  that  "  promises  like  pie-crust  are  made  to  be 
broken."  Perhaps  that  is  why  I  render  myself  ridicu- 
lous at  times  by  sticking  to  the  word  which  once  given 
I  will  not  retract,  whether  it  be  given  to  friend,  lover, 
maid  or  cat.  The  cat  knows  about  it  just  as  well  as 
the  lover! 

It  was  my  own  idea,  this  innocent  exchange  of  com- 
modities, which  meant  an  education  and  pleasure  our 
economical  mother  would  have  permitted  on  no  other 
terms,  and  the  discipline  led  to  a  remunerative  position 
on  the  Milwaukee  Sentinel  —  that  of  literary  editor. 
I  soon  built  up  the  book  department  until  from  every 
publishing  house  in  the  land  came  tons  of  matter  right 
along.  Not  till  then  did  I  realize  how  many  people 
wanted  to  write,  and  what  masses  of  mediocre  stuff 
were  foisted  upon  a  long-suffering  public.  I  think 
this  experience  had  a  dampening  effect  on  the  usual 
girlish  ambition  to  become  "  an  author." 

When  my  salary  had  risen  to  $21  per  week,  I  left  my 
birth-place  never  permanently  to  return.  Milwaukee 
is  a  handsome  city,  with  good  educational  privileges, 
and  the  first  year  or  two  of  swimming  and  boating  on 
its  sylvan  river  and  symmetrical  bay,  of  seven-mile 
walks  daily  in  those  streets  of  distances  and  along  Lake 
Michigan's  shores,  were  unalloyed  delight ;  but  after 
the  formative  years  we  seemed  to  outgrow  it  —  or  out- 
grow the  taste  for  it,  which  means  even  more.  My 
brother,  young  and  enthusiastic,  had  overworked  him- 


The  First  Flight  33 

self  in  superintending  the  extensive  improvements  on 
the  Northern  Pacific,  and  I  too  was  tired,  so  we  took 
a  winter  off  together  and  found  ourselves  in  Washing- 
ton—  our  first  visit  to  the  capital  of  the  nation,  and 
our  last.  For  never  yet  have  I  been  able  to  return  to 
a  spot  where  we  were  so  happy  together  and  which 
without  him  would  be  so  sad.  How  often  during  the 
succeeding  year,  the  last  of  his  life,  have  I  heard  him 
exclaim :     "  Washington  was  a  romance !  " 

No  experience  could  have  been  more  astonishing. 
Arriving  with  little  baggage,  the  minimum  of  a  ward- 
robe, thinking  only  of  sight-seeing,  expecting  soon  to 
go  to  Florida,  we  were  landed  in  Aladdin's  Palace,  as 
it  were.  A  few  letters  of  introduction  and  an  old 
family  friend  turned  the  whole  thing  into  an  adventure, 
a  glorious  dream.  Never  did  I  conceive  that  mere 
youth  and  personality,  with  a  nod  here  and  there  from 
on  high,  could  so  open  up  everything  to  us.  Dis- 
tinguished people  passed  in  shoals,  not  a  few  paused 
beside  us  and  some  we  came  to  know  intimately ;  but 
of  all  these  the  figure  that  stands  out  most  distinctly 
through  the  years  is  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett,  who 
proved  a  fairy  godmother  to  me  —  silver  gown,  glass 
slippers  and  all. 

Mrs.  Burnett  had  a  tender  heart.  I  can  never  for- 
get her  kindness  to  me  that  radiant  winter.  She  loved 
anything  savoring  of  the  romantic.  Despite  her 
numerous  cavaliers,  she  lived  almost  exclusively  in  her 
imagination  —  that  imagination  which  accomplished 
so  much.  The  world  rated  her  at  her  worth,  and  re- 
fused to  be  scandalized,  which  proves  that  Society  is  a 
<jreat   deal  keener  than   many   believe.      She   was   the 


34  Within  My  Horizon 

Bertha  of  her  own  "  Through  One  Administration." 
A  born  story-teller,  she  couldn't  be  dull,  not  even  when 
readers  began  to  fear  that  the  serial  would  last  as  long 
as  its  title  indicated ! 

At  that  time,  when  she  might  have  been  almost  any 
age,  she  was  short  and  plump,  with  beautiful  arms 
which  could  "  make  elbows,"  as  she  proudly  pro- 
claimed. I  was  young  and  thin,  and  regarded  my  own 
elbows  with  alarm.     They  were  unmistakably  sharp. 

"  You  are  pretty,  my  dear,"  she  ran  on  amiably, 
"  and  your  arms  are  pretty,  but  you  can't  make  elbows. 
Few  women  can." 

I  didn't  care  either  to  make  elbows  or  to  be  pretty, 
but  I  did  so  long  to  be  thought  beautiful;  and  for  one 
fleeting  moment  I  realized  that  dream.  A  certain 
young  woman,  famous  for  her  beauty  and  soon  to  wed 
a  French  duke,  stood  near  me  at  a  function,  when  my 
chaperon  whispered,  "  Listen  to  those  two  men,"  who 
were  looking  at  us  both,  the  beauty  and  myself,  one 
replying,  "  Well,  for  my  part,  I  don't  think  she  com- 
pares to  that  dark-eyed  girl  with  Judge  Blank's  wife." 
That  set  me  up  for  days. 

Mrs.  Burnett  was  very  fond  of  lace.  Once  she 
sighed  :  "  Oh,  I  do  love  lace  so.  I  never  have  enough. 
It  should  be  bought  not  by  the  yard  but  the  mile. 
Think  how  fine  it  would  be  to  go  into  a  shop  and  say: 
'  Seven  miles  of  lace,  please! '  " 

I    loved    her    simplicity.     She    never    fussed    about 

things  —  took  everything  as  it  came.     A  picnic  suited 

her  as  well  as  a  banquet.     She  resembled  Ada  Rehan, 

/her  countrywoman,  almost,  in  face,  in  figure,  both  a 

bit  heavy,  and  in  hair.     Her  reddish  hair  was  always 


The  First  Flight  35 

fluffy,  and  she  liked  to  be  called  Fluffy.  With  her 
large  blue  eyes  looking  up  at  you  wistfully,  on  the  ripe 
lips  an  engaging  smile,  she  seemed  little  more  than  a 
child.  Yet  under  this  softness  there  was  the  strong 
will,  the  unyielding  purpose  which  leads  to  great 
achievement. 

She  had  ways  that  clung  to  you.  When  she  began 
to  speak,  especially  in  a  happy  mood,  the  smile  in  her 
eyes  was  accompanied  by  a  sort  of  gurgle,  something 
like  the  beginning  of  a  singer's  trill,  suddenly  met  in 
the  throat  by  laughter.  This  fascinated  me  so  that  I 
caught  it,  quite  subconsciously,  until  my  brother 
brought  me  up  sharply.  Theodore  admired  her  im- 
mensely and  she  was  very  fond  of  him.  She  called 
him  Feodor,  after  the  Russian,  and  her  Sir  Galahad. 

It  was  my  first  glimpse  of  "  le  mariage  a  la  mode," 
and  made  a  deep  impression  on  my  young  heart,  alas ! 
She  had  so  many  affairs,  from  her  first  "  little  one 
for  a  cent,"  as  her  satirical  husband  characterized  it, 
to  what  she  considered  "  la  grande  passion,"  that  her 
health  gave  way — for  of  all  dissipations  emotional 
dissipation  is  the  most  insidious  and  exhausting.  No 
tribute  to  her  brain  pleased  her  half  so  much  as  one  to 
her  body ;  so  Dr.  Burnett  used  to  say  —  yet  she  took 
all  her  friends  into  her  confidence,  not  excepting  her 
husband,  who  was  none  too  gentle,  when  it  became 
necessary  to  discover  why  the  dark  lover  on  the  white 
charger  came  no  more.  At  such  times  it  was  difficult 
to  take  either  her  or  it  seriously,  but  it  was  all  real  to 
her,  as  real  as  her  delightful  stories  were  to  others, 
and  therein  lay  the  contradictions,  the  absurdities,  per- 
haps the  insincerities,  of  a  great  artist.     You  cannot 


36  Within  My  Horizon 

expect  everything  in  one  human  being.  Mrs.  Burnett's 
genius  has  appealed  to  millions.  She  is  one  in  a  mil- 
lion.    Must  she  have  cold  common  sense  besides? 

Her  young  sons  called  her  Dearest,  like  the  small 
hero  in  "  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy."  New  Year's  Day 
she  was  magnificently  arrayed  in  white  brocaded  velvet, 
with  a  Mary  Stuart  collar.  As  she  stood  up  to  receive, 
two  boisterous  hounds  came  rushing  in  out  of  the  driz- 
zle, eager  for  her  caresses  and  jumping  all  over  the 
costly  gown  with  muddy  paws.  Everybody  exclaimed 
at  once  and  made  dashes  for  the  animals ;  but  she  only 
looked  down  a  little  ruefully  and  cried  out  implor- 
ingly :  "  Don't  punish  them !  They  didn't  mean  to 
hurt  my  frock.  They  love  me  and  want  to  tell  me 
so." 

That  was  the  truth  not  only  with  the  dogs  but  her 
friends.  They  did  love  her,  the  true  friends;  for 
whatever  her  faults  they  were  not  petty  —  they  were 
the  forgivable  kind.  Her  disposition  was  perfect,  her 
amiability  supreme ;  I  never  heard  her  speak  ill  of 
anybody,  though  others  did  of  her,  sometimes  near 
friends  whom  she  had  benefited  —  nor  did  I  see  one 
flash  of  envy,  though  many  envied  her.  But  what  they 
envied  was  not  hers  to  give  had  she  the  wealth  of  a 
queen  —  her  genius,  her  success,  her  fame.  To  me 
her  everlasting  blessing  was  not  any  one  of  these, 
precious  though  they  might  be,  but  that  gentle  nature, 
that  fine  courage,  that  large  belief.  She  was  peculiarly 
one  who  made  the  best  of  everything,  though  often  sur- 
rounded by  harpies  who  wrung  her  dry;  and  this  in 
addition  to  those  emotional  jousts  which  were  none  too 
good  for  her  —  draining  still  further  a  vitality  which, 


The  First  Flight  37 

while  great,  was  continually  drawn  upon,  especially 
financially,  at  home  and  abroad. 

Well,  it  was  a  great  time,  but  it  palled  at  last.  The 
peculiar  life  at  Washington  breeds  peculiar  people. 
Caviar  is  appetizing,  but  there  comes  a  day  when  you 
prefer  plain  potatoes.  Then,  with  color  gone  and 
liver  seriously  deranged,  after  feasts  from  morn  till 
midnight,  a  fierce  longing  seizes  you  for  a  simpler, 
healthier  land,  and  you  get  away  to  home  and  mother 
as  fast  as  the  train  can  carry  you. 


VI 

MARRIAGE 

After  my  brother's  death,  I  felt  as  if  life  were  over. 
In  March,  at  the  end  of  a  six  months'  sojourn  in  Cali- 
fornia, and  a  year  after  Washington,  we  rented  a  house 
in  Saint  Paul,  where  we  had  friends,  thinking  to  make 
it  our  home.  It  was  a  refined,  beautiful  city,  and  ad- 
vantageously situated  for  Theodore's  profession,  which 
was  gradually  resolving  itself  into  architecture.  A 
young  man's  career  in  the  West  at  that  time,  especially 
the  career  of  one  whose  draughtsmanship  seemed 
equally  valued  in  railroads  or  in  civil  life,  was  much 
more  empirical  than  in  the  East  now.  Theo  was  of  a 
type  which  always  has  excited  my  keenest  interest  — 
perhaps  just  because  the  world  acts  as  if  it  would 
have  none  of  them.  Fortunately  he  had  a  little  money, 
a  sufficient  income  for  his  actual  needs,  which  kept  him 
from  undue  worry,  yet  his  tastes  and  his  employment 
were  often  at  odds.  Still,  he  recognized  the  necessity 
of  the  quid  pro  quo,  in  a  world  which  measures  service 
exclusively  by  dollars,  and  was  invariably  liked  by  his 
employers,  never  lacking  a  job.  At  the  same  time 
his  real  being  was  elsewhere;  if  he  had  lived,  I  am 
sure  he  would  have  been  a  successful  novelist;  for 
even  in  his  early  twenties  he  possessed  that  greatest  of 
all  powers  for  a  writer  of  fiction  —  the  power  to  touch 
the  heart.     He  used  to  sav  that  humor  was  but  the 

38 


Marriage  39 

bright  side  of  a  tear.  A  few  weeks  before  his  death, 
he  wrote  and  sent  to  an  important  newspaper  syndicate, 
which  had  offered  substantial  cash  prizes  for  the  best 
short  stories  submitted,  something  that  caused  one  of 
the  judges,  Brander  Matthews,  to  exclaim :  "  Here 
is  a  new  novelist !  "  The  story  won  the  first  prize,  but 
Theodore  never  knew  it,  for  when  the  news  reached 
us,  he  was  dying. 

This  was  late  in  November.  In  August,  mother  had 
been  stricken  with  typhoid  fever,  that  scourge  of  dis- 
heveled American  cities,  yet  despite  three  long  months 
of  serious  illness  she  had  pulled  through,  when  my 
brother  succumbed  to  the  same  disease  and  died  in  a 
week.  The  Canadian  trained  nurse  who  had  been  with 
us  for  the  first  month  or  so,  awaiting  another  call, 
when  she  returned  and  saw  crepe  on  the  door  inferred 
as  a  matter  of  course  that  mother  was  gone.  All 
through  that  week  of  delirium  Theodore  kept  asking 
in  his  thick,  fevered  utterance  if  his  story  had  taken 
the  prize,  which  made  me  fear  his  hard  work  on  it 
had  lowered  his  vitality,  none  too  great  at  any  time. 
Like  so  many  exceptional  human  beings  he  seemed 
doomed  almost  from  the  start  by  the  very  wonder  of 
him.  He  not  only  wrote  and  drew  well  enough  to 
command  a  price  but  he  excelled  in  music.  As  I  have 
said,  the  piano  is  to  me  unattractive,  but  not  under 
Theodore  or  Paderewski  —  and,  believe  me,  between 
them  there  was  much  in  common;  in  their  touch  if  not 
their  technique ;  in  that  exquisite  singing  tone,  that 
oneness  with  the  instrument,  that  rich  orchestral 
shower  of  melodv  which  comes  forth  from  those  cold 


40  Within  My  Horizon 

are  called  but  few  chosen ;  and  the  verdict  as  to  Theo- 
dore Bartlett  comes  not  only  from  the  sister  who  loved 
him  but  from  others.  His  Milwaukee  music-teacher, 
a  man  educated  in  Europe,  said  that  when  this  favo- 
rite pupil  came  to  his  quarters  for  his  lesson,  at  once 
all  doors  were  opened  that  the  occupants  of  the  various 
other  studios  might  hear  him  more  distinctly.  I  think 
that  such  rare  aptitude  cannot  be  thrown  away  —  that 
somewhere  beyond  the  stars  it  is  in  beautiful  fulfill- 
ment. 

Theo's  death  was  the  first  great  sorrow  I  ever  had 
known,  and  the  anguish  of  it  made  me  sympathetic  not 
only  writh  all  who  lose  their  dear  ones,  but  with  those 
refined  and  lonely  souls  who  find  life  as  it  is  lived  to- 
day, under  pressure  and  with  sharp,  exacting,  com- 
mercial standards,  more  than  they  can  bear.  If  I  were 
a  Carnegie  or  a  Rockefeller  I  know  that  not  on  li- 
braries and  laboratories,  and  more  libraries  and  more 
laboratories,  would  I  pour  out  my  millions,  but  in 
sustaining  that  which  makes  libraries  possible :  brains, 
for  a  change ;  creative  brains,  not  the  musty  fusty 
things  savoring  of  the  tomb.  If  anything  on  earth  is 
of  supreme  importance,  it  is  not  the  shell  but  the  life 
within ;  and  until  America  perceives  this,  and  mental 
superiority  is  rated  at  its  true  value,  the  United  States 
is  bound  to  be  dominated  by  the  mediocre  and  the  shal- 
low. 

After  that  troubled  winter,  and  the  restorative  of 
the  brief  summer,  its  fructifying  heat  alternating  with 
stupendous  electrical  storms,  Minnesota  being  sur- 
charged, at  all  seasons,  with  the  source  of  life,  we 
started  in   September   for  New  York.     If  you  asked 


Marriage  41 

me  why,  I  could  not  tell  you;  possibly  a  friend,  who, 
however,  did  not  live  there,  influenced  me ;  but  more  be- 
cause we  were  desolate,  free  from  interfering  rela- 
tives, the  sport  of  circumstance.  Nothing  special 
called  us  anywhere,  one  place  was  as  good  or  as  bad 
as  another,  for  you  cannot  get  away  from  grief  — 
only  time  can  conquer  that.  Never  shall  I  forget  the 
blank  when  the  things  Theodore  and  I  knew  together 
were  superseded  by  the  things  in  which  he  had  no 
part. 

Yet  this  strange  flight  to  a  great  city  in  which  we 
had  no  interests  proved  the  best  move  I  could  have 
made.  The  East  as  a  whole  is  home  to  me  —  no 
Western  birthplace  can  change  the  feeling;  though 
New  York  at  that  moment  seemed  no  more  than  a 
whirling  dervish  —  heaven  knows  what  its  effect 
would  have  been  on  me  as  it  is  now !  Listlessly  we 
crept  into  a  top  apartment  in  West  38th  Street,  lonely 
as  women  could  be,  except  that  we  had  each  other. 
Mother  bore  up  rather  better  than  I,  demonstrating 
again  her  remarkable  recuperative  powers. 

At  first,  still  in  bed,  when  we  had  to  tell  her,  weak 
with  long  illness,  that  Theodore  was  no  more,  she  wept 
inconsolably.  Next  day,  she  told  me  how  all  night 
long  she  had  held  him  in  her  arms  —  her  little  satin 
baby.  His  flesh  was  like  satin,  as  indeed  was  her 
own,  and  perhaps  mine. 

Mother  was  conspicuous  all  her  life  for  a  happy  wit, 
a  gay  humor,  which  did  not  desert  her  even  in  this 
terrible  fever.  She  once  told  me  that  as  a  girl  when 
she  entered  a  room,  people  would  say:  "  Here  comes 
Sophia  Fuller!     Now   we'll  have   fun!"     Which  tin- 


42  Within  My  Horizon 

happy  prelude  would  instantly  reduce  her  to  abject 
silence.  I  recollect  well  how  the  physician,  shaking 
his  forefinger  as  to  a  child,  said  to  her,  hardly  free 
from  the  delirium :  "  Now  remember,  I  shall  call 
again  on  you  to-morrow  exactly  at  this  hour."  To 
which  she,  with  amused  eyes,  responded :  "  Well,  I'll 
be  here." 

Her  son's  death  brought  at  least  this  good  thing  — 
that  she  seemed  nearer  to  her  daughter,  who  with  the 
selfishness  of  youth  had  been  absorbed  in  him  alone. 
Now  I  turned  with  far  greater  appreciation  to  my 
mother;  and  she,  to  whom  affection  was  the  breath  of 
life,  and  who  like  all  who  give  much  received  little, 
thrived  on  my  increased  love  for  her  as  a  flower  in  the 
sun. 

This  affection,  which  was  to  gather  strength  with 
the  years  so  that  no  mother  and  daughter  could  be 
nearer,  was  heightened  at  that  period  by  my  almost 
complete  indifference  to  men.  Mother  always  had 
been  my  best  woman  friend;  I  confided  to  her  prac- 
tically everything,  and  her  sound  judgment  and  tender 
sympathy  saved  me  from  heart-burnings  innumerable 
—  since  so  few  women  know  the  definition  of  friend- 
ship for  other  women.  Any  woman,  even  a  bad  wo- 
man, can  be  loyal  to  some  man;  every  man  needs  at 
least  one  woman ;  but,  with  exceptions  so  few  as  only 
to  prove  the  rule,  it  is  not  in  the  female  animal  to  be 
strictly  honorable  with  her  own  sex  —  certainly  not 
where  there  is  the  slightest  competition.  So  it  hap- 
pens that  my  chief  friendships  not  less  than  affairs  have 
been  with  men;  and  most  of  them   lifelong:  —  while 


Marriage  43 

feminine  intimacies  often  proved  but  the  things  of  a 
day. 

Life  seemed  so  empty  without  Theodore  that  no 
man  interested  me;  yet  it  was  in  this  singular  and  I 
may  say  fortunate  mood  that  after  five  months  of  New 
York  I  met  an  intensely  masculine  man  who  liked  to 
do  his  own  courting ;  and  when  September  came  around 
again  married  him  —  twenty-two  months  after  my 
brother's  death.  It  was  my  first  offer  from  a  man 
who  was  at  once  attractive  and  reliable ;  the  worth- 
while man  I  called  him  —  as  do  some  of  my  friends  to 
this  day.  My  inclination,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  was  for 
the  fiery,  venturesome,  young  Lochinvar  type;  the 
kind  that  the  last  week  of  vacation  broke  into  the  High 
School  building  of  Keene,  and  stole  the  tongue  of  the 
bell  in  its  tower,  smashing  three  doors  to  accomplish 
the  valiant  deed  —  and  all  because  I  dreaded  to  hear 
the  clang  summoning  me  to  work  again!  Of  this 
bold  adventure  I  was  entirely  ignorant  until  it  was 
crowned  by  confession  in  the  dark  of  a  Saturday 
evening  just  before  the  term  began,  under  the  open 
windows  of  a  curious  neighbor,  where  in  the  grass 
he  dropped  the  offending  tongue,  while  she  promptly 
reported  at  headquarters,  bringing  plenty  of  trouble 
to  both  our  respected  families. 

Such  a  brave  if  brainless  assault  on  established  in- 
stitutions seemed  to  me  at  sweet  sixteen  exactly  the 
sort  of  thing  a  gallant  knight  should  do  for  his  fair 
lady.  While  I  recovered  rapidly  from  this  particular 
delusion,  I  was  attracted  by  the  glitter  more  than  once, 
but  luckily  was  destined  for  something  better.     This 


44  Within  My  Horizon 

new  man  of  action,  a  widower  with  one  son  and  much 
older  than  myself,  was  all  that  could  be  asked  and 
more,  for  a  delightful  humor  pervaded  his  sobriety  and 
a  winning  liberality  mingled  with  his  principles  and 
ideals.  Then  his  reserve,  his  calm,  challenging  man- 
ner, rather  piqued  my  curiosity,  and  indifference  soon 
gave  way  to  no  ephemeral  interest.  Seven  months 
from  the  first  meeting,  late  one  hazy  seventh  of  Sep- 
tember, amidst  the  dim,  mellow  beauty  of  Old  Trinity, 
I  was  married  to  him,  and,  after  a  brief,  beautiful 
honeymoon  in  the  White  Mountains,  went  to  his  quiet 
home  in  Brooklyn,  with  its  snowy  fruit  blossoms  in 
the  springtime,  its  spreading  horse  chestnut  a  mass  of 
floral  candles,  and  in  summer  the  swaying  ailanthus, 
that  strange  tropical  Tree  of  Heaven  in  a  northern 
clime;  hardy  ivy  running  all  over  the  soft  brownstone 
front  —  a  cool  and  woodsy  retreat  within  which,  al- 
most without  a  break,  especially  in  the  warm  months, 
I  have  dwelt  in  peace  and  content  ever  since. 

As  the  wife  of  the  business  manager  of  the  Standard 
Union,  I  was  able  to  continue  those  book  reviews, 
music  criticisms  and  sketches  of  travel  begun  in  the 
newspapers  of  the  West.  The  S.  U.  was  then  in  a 
state  of  reorganization,  with  insufficient  means  and 
circulation,  and  my  freely  offered  services  were  gladly 
accepted.  For  many  years  John  and  1(1  called  him 
John  in  print  as  I  called  my  mother  Jemima)  were  the 
best  of  comrades,  and  as  we  wandered  about  suburban 
New  York  I  fell  into  writing  up  our  simple  outings. 
A  constant  reader  returning  from  his  summer  vacation 
pronounced  one  of  these  the  breeziest  thing  he  had 
struck  yet :  and  another  volunteered  the  opinion  that 


Marriage  45 

if  the  S.  U.  kept  along  that  line  long  enough  it  would 
soon  have  a  big  circulation  —  which  happy  prophecy, 
whether  due  in  part  to  your  humble  servant  or  not,  has 
abundantly  been  fulfilled. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  a  bon-mot  of  John's  ran 
around  town.  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  a  friend  of  the 
old  Milwaukee  days,  not  long  married  and  very  much 
in  love  with  her  travelling  husband,  told  me  that 
twenty-four  hours  before  his  return  from  his  various 
journeys  her  circulation  began  to  increase.  This,  in 
the  presence  of  Mrs.  Wilcox  (but  not  of  her  husband) 
at  one  of  our  little  dinners  prevalent  at  the  time,  I 
audaciously  repeated,  together  with  John's  rejoinder: 
"  That's  just  the  man  we  want  on  the  Standard 
Union."  Ella's  blushes  struggled  with  her  sense  of 
humor. 

It  has  been  said  that  if  a  man  would  give  half  the 
thought  to  marriage  that  he  does  to  business  divorce 
would  be  unknown.  Once  in  a  blue  moon  comes  a 
realization  of  something  like  the  ideal.  I  know  one 
marriage  where  passion  as  well  as  tenderness  live  on 
and  on,  but  it  is  the  case  of  a  woman  with  a  youthful 
heart  older  than  her  husband  and  a  man  of  consum- 
mate understanding  who  has  wrung  the  world  dry. 
About  her  there  is  an  Indian  Summer  sort  of  beauty 
and  charm,  a  little  elusive  yet  filled  with  richness  and 
spice,  while  in  him  burn  those  slow  fires  that  never  die ; 
and  both  have  vision,  both  keep  in  touch  with  a  world 
they  do  not  care  too  much  for  —  while  neither  im- 
poses will  or  person  upon  the  other.  In  the  midst  of 
deathless  love  individuality  has  been  preserved,  so 
much  so  that  at  times  each  seeks  freedom   from  too 


46  Within  My  Horizon 

close  companionship.  Since  both  are  fond  of  soli- 
tude, both  have  work  to  do,  and  both  know  the  blessing 
of  salutary  absence  and  return,  this  is  not  difficult. 
Where  there  is  perfect  confidence,  never  can  there  be 
anxiety,  and  the  rush  together  again  is  like  water  to 
thirst. 

Moreover,  they  know  and  respect  the  power  of 
Dream.  When  apart  they  are  together,  as  together 
they  sometimes  are  apart.  Nothing  can  separate  them 
save  death,  and  they  believe  in  unity,  in  reunion,  in 
reincarnation,  after  death.  They  say:  "We  have 
known  the  stars  too  long  to  fear  the  night." 


VII 

AT   GUFFANTI'S 

John  and  I  have  had  our  good  little  times  as  well 
as  our  good  big  times ;  our  days  simple  not  less  than 
complex;  and  some  of  them  were  voyages  into  what 
we  called  our  Rus  in  Urbe  —  inexpensive  excursions 
into  humble  resorts  within  the  radius  of  Greater  New 
York.  These  modest  exploits,  which  often  saw  print, 
were  not,  as  some  serious  friends  seemed  to  think,  a 
revelation  of  family  secrets;  rather  were  they  an  at- 
tempt to  visualize  the  irrepressible  conflict  between  the 
Eternal  Masculine  and  the  Eternal  Feminine  —  to 
which  camouflage  John's  and  my  oppositeness  lent  it- 
self readily.  Despite  the  fact  that  our  opinions  often 
clashed,  without  which  stimulus  we  should  have  been 
lonesome,  there  was  no  skeleton  in  the  closet,  even 
though  everything  happened  just  as  I  say,  and  prac- 
tically in  the  same  words.  While  I  may  be  ashamed 
of  the  things  from  a  literary  point  of  view,  I  am 
rather  proud  of  them  as  specimens  of  our  bloodless  bat- 
tles and  undying  camaraderie.  My  writings  would 
never  set  the  Hudson  on  fire,  but  sometimes  John 
would  condescend  to  say  they  were  "  good  newspaper 
stuff."  Well,  anyhow  they  were  great  fun,  and  here 
is  a  sample  of  a  little  "  urbe  "  one,  which  I  am  fond 
of  as  a  relic  of  the  old,  old  Guffanti's : 

"  What  is  better,  after  all,   than  your  own  coun- 

47 


48  Within  My  Horizon 

try?  "  asked  the  woman  who  had  been  half  a  year  in 
the  East  Indies. 

"  Nothing,"  answered  the  man  who  had  spent  the 
winter  near  the  source  of  the  Nile. 

Guffanti's  was  then  a  modest  restaurant  in  an  un- 
fashionable quarter  of  Manhattan,  but  now  it  is  a  thing 
of  sports  and  automobiles  and  six  courses.  For  half 
a  dollar  in  the  early  days  of  this  century,  one  had  quite 
enough,  but  not  too  much  for  twice  as  much.  Every 
dish  then  as  now  was  delicious;  but  judgment  in  quan- 
tity as  well  as  quality  was  in  evidence ;  for  infinitely 
superior  are  a  few  well-cooked  essentials  to  any  num- 
ber of  the  "a  la"  variety. 

The  pace  was  set  by  the  crisp  freshness  of  the 
onions  and  radishes,  served  with  sardines  and  an- 
chovies, as  a  snappy  prelude  to  a  heaping  platter  of  the 
best  spaghetti  that  ever  was,  enriched  by  a  red  sauce 
that  cannot  be  surpassed  in  Italy  itself.  It  is  said, 
indeed,  to  be  a  combination  of  Italy  and  Ireland,  the 
genius  of  the  Italian  proprietor  enhanced  by  that  of 
his  Irish  wife.  Oh,  the  delight  of  that  savory  mix- 
ture of  tomato  paste,  chicken  livers,  peppers  green 
and  red,  onions,  oil,  lemon  and  spices  on  this  peren- 
nial Italian  food !  In  those  days  spaghetti,  except  by 
special  order,  alternated  with  minestra,  that  red  soup 
which  alone  is  a  full  meal.  The  Latin  races  are  ab- 
stemious ;  it  is  only  the  Teutons  and  Anglo-Saxons 
who  gorge  —  and  they  not  just  now. 

Then  came  the  choice  between  impeccable  chicken 
and  rare  roast  beef  in  its  juice.  Fresh  salad,  Gorgon- 
zola  and  black  coffee  in  a  big  cup  completed  the  per- 
fect repast.     A  pint  of  red  or  white  wine  was  thrown 


•■  lOHX" 


At  Guffantis  49 

in.  Every  seat  was  filled,  with  many  waiting ;  for  the 
public  knows  a  good  thing  when  it  sees  it.  Guffanti 
must  be  a  millionaire  by  now,  yet  I  seldom  go  there, 
for  it  is  a  case  of  enforced  repletion  —  and  waste  I 
abhor. 

When  the  two  wanderers  burst  into  sudden  patriot- 
ism, they  had  proceeded  no  farther  than  the  magical 
cocktail,  not  seen  for  many  a  day  and  known  to  have 
an  effect.  Moreover,  after  long  separation,  they  were 
looking  fondly  into  each  other's  eyes.  A  husband 
and  wife,  if  they  be  the  right  sort,  can  have  a  better 
time,  even  after  years  of  marriage,  than  those  tame 
and  timid  souls  who,  sunk  in  egoism,  dare  not  venture. 
Sometimes  I  think  the  married,  at  least  those  who  have 
learned  mutual  toleration,  are  the  only  ones  who  do 
have  a  good  time.  That  evening  every  Jack  had  his 
Jill,  some  young,  some  old,  all  apparently  unyoked ; 
yet  the  men  seemed  to  have  but  one  god,  the  god  of 
self,  while  the  women,  with  those  hard,  impenetrable 
eyes  —  well,  if  they  imagined  themselves  in  glorious 
freedom,  each  surely  was  bound  hand  and  foot  by 
her  limitations. 

"  A  man  is  a  fool  who  thinks  he  can  go  it  as  well 
alone,"  John  burst  out,  as  he  looked  around  —  and 
our  eyes  met. 

Three  musicians  filed  in,  two  with  mandolins  and 
one  with  a  guitar.  This  was  a  new  move  on  the  part 
of  Guffanti,  and  John  smiled  wickedly,  knowing  how 
I  detested  music  at  meals.  But  it's  not  so  bad  when 
the  feast  is  strictly  matrimonial,  with  plenty  of  time 
for  talk  at  home;  nor  so  bad  with  a  trio  of  string 
instruments,    playing   softly.     It   may   have   been    the 


50  Within  My  Horizon 

cocktail,  with  its  inevitable  glamour,  but  it  did  seem 
as  if  this  tiny  orchestra  was  a  marvel  of  sensuous 
charm.  By  and  by  one  of  the  mandolin  players,  with 
Hebraic  features,  rose  and  sang  in  a  remarkably  good 
baritone,  walking  back  and  forth  as  he  did  so,  while 
his  companion  joined  with  zest  in  the  chorus,  giving 
"  O  Santa  Lucia  "  with  a  yearn  in  the  prolonged  "  O  " 
and  a  tender  pride  in  the  "  Lucia  "  which  I  have  never 
known  before  or  since.  The  rhythm  of  it  haunts  me 
still,  in  the  most  unexpected  place  —  the  unutterable 
longing  of  it,  the  aching  nostalgia.  Ah,  how  alike  are 
all  in  love  of  home! 

The  young  fellow  evidently  was  a  Jew,  the  one  who 
sang  alone,  who  gave  the  cue.  From  this  race  so 
many  artists  spring,  sensitive  to  the  atmosphere,  to 
the  slightest  appreciation,  no  matter  how  humble  the 
environment  —  and  ever  ready  to  work  and  work  hard. 
That's  the  clou,  the  driven  nail,  which  makes  all  the 
rest  combine  to  full  fruition. 

"  If  you  were  a  gentleman  of  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment," said  I,  as  the  feast  drew  to  a  conclusion,  toying 
with  an  American  two-dollar  bill,  the  first  I  had 
handled  in  many  moons,  "  about  this  time  I  should 
gently  shove  the  wherewithal  across  the  table." 

"  I  am  of  the  artistic  temperament,"  declared  John 
promptly,  seizing  the  scrip  without  ceremony. 

Soon  after  we  were  invited  to  dine  at  our  own  Ham- 
ilton Club  and,  decorated  with  apple-boughs  and  blos- 
soms, no  table  was  ever  more  beautiful,  no  guests  more 
interesting,  no  food  more  delicious, —  or  at  least  so  it 
seemed  to  me  after  six  months'  continuous  travel. 
Why,  oh,  why,  drag  yourself  over  vast  continents  and 


At  Guffantis  51 

boundless  seas,  with  all  the  attendant  discomforts  and 
inconveniences,  to  meet  folks  far  less  congenial  than 
those  right  at  home?  I  am  convinced  that  the  best 
people  do  not  travel.  Indeed,  no  less  an  authority 
than  Emerson  says  that  only  a  light  mind  loves  travel. 
Well,  he  doesn't  catch  me  there,  for  I  don't  love  it, 
though  unaccountably  I  do  it  —  pursued  by  a  geo- 
graphical curiosity  beside  which  that  accorded  your 
neighbors  isn't  a  circumstance. 

So  I  went  and  went,  though  I  well  knew  better. 
The  few  who  go  "  put  it  over  "  on  the  many  who  re- 
main behind  —  thus  revenging  themselves  for  all  the 
expense,  all  the  trouble,  all  the  boredom  at  the  time; 
Pierre  Loti  told  the  truth  when  he  said  that  the  Orient 
was  never  so  fascinating  as  over  a  cup  of  coffee  in  his 
own  French  den. 


VIII 

RUS    IN    URBE 

"  How  long  since  you  blew  me  off?  "  asked  John. 

I  answered  with  that  certainty  as  to  matrimonial 
dates  which  ever  is  woman's  triumph  and  man's  de- 
spair. 

"  Would  you  do  it  again?  " 

"  It  is  dangerous,  you  know,"  I  began  cautiously, 
"  to  try  to  repeat  — "  but  I  did  and  he  came ;  to  Coney 
Island. 

First  I  weighed  him,  he  who  is  so  shy  of  the  scales. 
Yet  the  result  was  a  credit  to  his  years,  his  habits  and 
his  Maker.  I  laid  down  the  penny  with  no  regret. 
But  the  astonishment  of  the  attendant,  as  he  saw  a 
small  slight  woman  paying  for  a  tall  solid  man,  was 
hard  to  bear. 

"  I  think  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  take  this 
dollar,"  I  suggested.  "  When  you  have  spent  it  I  will 
give  you  another.  Our  originality  seems  to  attract 
attention." 

John  fingered  the  bill  with  that  wide  smile  which 
must  have  been  his  on  similar  occasions  in  boyhood's 
halcyon  days. 

Along  Surf  Avenue  we  wandered  metaphorically 
hand  in  hand.  Finally  we  paused  with  watering 
mouths  before  the  now  familiar  sight  of  a  long  roll 
of  beef  turning  on  a  spit  against  a  background  of  red 

52 


Rus  in  Urbe  53 

hot  coals.  The  sight  and  smell  proved  too  much  for 
us,  though  my  companion  I  am  sure,  had  dreams  of 
dining  in  great  splendor,  even  to  the  tune  of  terrapin 
and  champagne.  As  we  inhaled  the  appetizing  fumes 
it  began  to  rain,  and  John,  in  a  straw  hat  and  with  no 
umbrella,  hesitated  no  longer. 

Words  fail  to  convey  any  idea  how  good  those  sand- 
wiches, soaked  in  their  own  juice,  hot,  tender  and 
rare,  loads  of  them,  did  taste.  Then  there  was  ice- 
cold  lager  and  a  delicious  cup  of  coffee,  in  the  good 
old  days  of  Stubenbord,  who  knew  what  was  what. 
In  the  rear  of  the  restaurant  were  table-cloths  and 
conventions,  but  we  were  in  the  front  row  of  the  dress- 
circle,  so  to  speak,  and  snug,  dry,  comfortable,  watch- 
ing the  passing  show  in  the  rain.  When  the  shower 
ceased  we  went  forth  to  the  Midway  and  there  I  lis- 
tened for  the  first  time  to  a  barker,  and  this  is  what  he 
said,  looking  exactly  like  a  clergyman,  serious  and 
smooth-shaven : 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  want  to  tell  you  right  now  that 
this  is  no  show  for  Sunday  School  teachers.  One  of  these 
dancers  whose  name  is  withheld  for  professional  reasons, 
danced  at  a  famous  dinner,  a  dinner  at  which  every  man 
present  laid  down  a  hundred  dollar  bill  —  A  HUNDRED 
DOLLAR  BILL !  But  though  some  have  pronounced 
against  these  dances,  they  have  been  proved  by  competent 
authority  to  be  not  immoral  —  only  scientific.  There  is  no 
reason  why  a  woman  with  a  liberal  turn  of  mind  should  not 
see  them.  Here  is  an  up-to-date  danseuse  from  France  who 
gives  us  the  cancan  and  the  Passion  Dance.  The  next,  who 
conceals  her  face  behind  the  veil,  is  the  lady  who  danced  at 
the  dinner,  and  in  her  you  will  find  something  racy  and 
rare.  This  other  woman,  as  you  will  see,  is  not  voluptu- 
ously built,  but  she  is  strong  on   a  contortion.     Last."  with 


54  Within  My  Horizon 

a  wave  of  the  hand  and  an  impressive  pause,  "  is  SHE,  the 
terpsichorean  artist  of  the  age,  who  dances  in  bare  feet, 
for  ten  inches  above  the  ankle,  and  gives  you  the  dance  doo 
vaunt,  bringing  into  service  all  the  muscles  of  the  stomach, 
tri-cuspid,  tri-cutting,  amazing.  Now  for  all  this  expensive 
entertainment,  well  worth  one  dollar,  and  for  which  one 
dollar  will  be  returned  at  the  box  office  if  the  show  is  not 
satisfactory,  we  charge  only  one  dime  —  one  little  stingy 
dime." 

But  Coney  is  not  all  fake.  In  the  old  Sea  Beach 
Palace  you  could  see  for  nothing,  the  guest  of  the  rail- 
road, the  fire  dances  of  Carmencella,  a  perfect  illusion, 
after  the  manner  of  Lois  Fuller,  the  fierce  flames  lick- 
ing the  gleaming  limbs  of  the  ballerina,  beautiful  in 
her  youth  and  purity,  and  apparently  consuming  her 
as  they  cleaved  the  sky. 

However,  this  second  feminine  treat,  as  I  surmised, 
proved  a  failure,  John  kicking  a  good  deal  over  the 
omission  of  terrapin  and  champagne.  Thus  it  came 
about  that,  to  impress  me  with  his  own  generosity,  in 
constrast  to  my  conspicuous  economy,  he  invited  me 
the  next  week  to  Woodmansten  Inn,  an  old  manor- 
house  quite  new  to  me,  situate  in  Westchester,  near  the 
Morris  Park  race-tracks,  and  noted  for  its  extrava- 
gant prices.  John  led  me  with  pride  up  the  winding 
path  and  through  the  wide  hall  to  a  glass-enclosed 
verandah  with  all  windows  open.  It  was  just  that 
lovely  hour  when  the  day  is  dim  and  yet  lights  are  not 
needed,  when  the  vague  quiet  of  evening  is  struggling 
with  the  gorgeous  colors  of  the  setting  sun. 

"  Now,"  said  John,  his  face  wreathed  in  smiles, 
"  isn't  this  a  trifle  better  than  Surf  Avenue  and  Stuben- 
bord's?" 


Rus  in  Urbe  55 

"  But  it's  a  long  way  —  and  you  haven't  paid  the 
bill  yet,"  I  added  slyly. 

The  menu  was  produced.  I  was  invited  to  select, 
and  yet  I  was  not.  Each  dish  was  gone  over  and  com- 
pared with  its  price  at  home.  John  floundered  over 
the  items  in  a  strangely  undecided  way. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you?  "  I  asked.  "  I  have 
known  you  to  give  a  hundred-dollar  dinner  with  less 
concern.     Is  it  because  I  am  your  wife?  " 

"  It  is  not,"  he  answered  indignantly,  "  but  I  don't 
seem  to  have  much  appetite.  Bring  us  chicken  cro- 
quettes and  peas." 

"  But  the  order  carries  only  two  little  croquettes," 
expostulated  the  waiter. 

"  Very  well,  that's  enough,"  snapped  my  husband. 
"  They  come  here  from  the  races  with  their  pockets 
stuffed  with  money,"  John  explained. 

"  I  think  the  lad  is  used  to  that  kind,"  I  murmured 
softly. 

The  minion  returned,  saying  there  were  no  more 
croquettes,  and  darted  off  to  a  more  profitable  cus- 
tomer. "  It  seems  to  me,"  I  began  in  calm,  measured 
tones,  as  John's  perplexity  obviously  increased,  "  that 
the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  order  at  once  two  cock- 
tails. After  a  cocktail  I  don't  care  what  I  have  to  eat. 
Heaven  descends." 

The  cocktails  were  ordered  instanter,  and  while  in 
that  exalted  mood  I  proposed  cold  roast  beef,  spa- 
ghetti and  potato  salad,  these  articles  being  sterling, 
nutritious  and  much  the  same  price  the  world  over. 
John  'hitched  at  the  list  as  a  drowning  man  at  a  life- 
preserver.     In  addition  he  ordered  for  himself  a  bot- 


56  Within  M y  Horizon 

tie  of  beer.  When  it  came  to  dessert  we  hesitated  be- 
tween ice-cream  and  a  Welsh  rabbit,  but  the  waiter 
had  lost  interest  in  us  by  that  time,  and  after  tinkling 
the  glass  for  some  time,  we  passed  out,  John  paying  a 
light  bill,  and  receiving  a  tooth-pick  gratis,  besides 
the  privilege  of  sitting  under  the  trees  in  a  comfortable 
wicker  chair.  It  was  quite  dark  now,  the  birds  curled 
up  in  the  branches,  only  the  fireflies  awake  and  alert. 
In  the  open  spaces  we  picked  out  the  Great  Dipper, 
circling  always  around  the  Pole,  that  pole  so  soon  to 
be  discovered  by  our  best  friend. 

"  It  seems  as  far  from  home  as  the  Adirondacks," 
John  said;  "  as  far  and  to  fare  worse.  Why  not  stay 
here?     Isn't  it  beautiful?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is.  The  stillness  and  the  solitude  of  it. 
But  the  most  beautiful  thing  of  all  is  the  expression 
of  your  face.  You  look  as  if  you  were  the  lord  of  the 
manor." 

"  I  feel  so,"  he  said,  twirling  his  toothpick  elegantly. 

Yes,  it  was  a  charming  spot,  and  even  without  the 
promised  fleshpots  I  had  a  good  time,  but  it  had  been, 
as  I  said,  a  long  way,  with  Spartan  fare  as  well  as 
discipline,  and  if  I  were  to  be  quite  truthful,  I  should 
have  to  confess  that  in  the  middle  of  the  night  I  woke 
hungry. 


IX 

WOODS    OFARDEN 

Once  upon  a  time,  many  a  year  ago,  John  went 
a-Maying,  one  pleasant  evening,  with  his  best  girl. 
This  I  was  told  in  an  expansive  moment,  soon  after 
the  honeymoon  (my  honeymoon,  not  the  best  girl's), 
and  the  joy  that  o'erspread  my  husband's  usually  im- 
passive countenance,  as  it  bore  witness  to  the  charms 
of  a  dinner  in  Arcadia,  was  exasperating  in  the  ex- 
treme. Yet,  as  my  spirit  is  poor,  as  I  seldom  experi- 
ence the  pangs  of  jealousy,  instead  of  loathing  the 
thought  of  that  feast  in  the  forest,  I  longed  for  it,  and 
begged  John  again  and  again  to  take  me  thither.  In 
vain  did  he  inform  me  that  Arcadia  was  only  another 
name  for  Staten  Island ;  that  the  restaurant,  the  profit- 
less enterprise  of  a  speculative  New  Yorker,  died  al- 
most as  soon  as  it  was  born;  that  the  special  glory  of 
it  lay  in  the  mood  of  the  hour  —  always  I  could  see 
as  in  a  dream  the  lovely  woods,  the  shimmering  bay,  the 
hedge  of  arbor  vita;,  the  thick  walls  of  the  old  colonial 
mansion,  the  table  spread  with  fine  linen  and  heavy 
silver,  the  culinary  triumphs  and  delicate  wines. 

"  Of  course  I  can  take  you,"  John  finally  admitted, 
the  picture  of  resignation,  "  but  it  won't  be  the  same. 
That  sort  of  thing,  Delmonico  in  the  rural  districts, 
couldn't  pay.     It  busted  wide  open  the  first  season.'' 

57 


58  Within  My  Horizon 

John's  expressions  sometimes  pain  me,  but  I  only  the 
more  persistently  pleaded : 

"  Perhaps  in  the  place  of  that  fine  cafe  there  is  now 
a  dear  little  inn,  which  would  be  even  more  romantic 
and  just  what  I  most  love." 

"  Well,  now  I  tell  you  what,"  suggested  John,  evi- 
dently under  the  influence  of  a  sudden  inspiration. 
"  You  go  down  there  some  forenoon  —  you  know 
how  busy  I  am  —  and  find  out.  Then,  if  it's  all  right, 
I'll  take  you  there  to  dinner  any  night  you  say." 

I  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  It  seemed  too  much 
like  what  the  theatrical  managers  call  "  trying  it  on  a 
dog."  Still  I  consented.  He  told  me  to  go  to  the 
ferry,  get  an  excursion  ticket  to  Eltingville,  ask  at  the 
station  for  the  Woods  of  Arden,  and  there  I  was. 

The  Woods  of  Arden!  I  hesitated  no  longer.  To 
walk  in  woods  that  recalled  Rosalind  I  would  go  far. 
Then  Jemima  was  anxious  to  see  the  battle-ships,  fresh 
from  the  Spanish  war  —  dear  little  patriot  that  she 
always  was.  Indeed,  when  we  followed  the  crowd 
and  mentioned  Eltingville  instead  of  Tompkinsville, 
the  ticket  agent  looked  at  us  inquiringly;  but  that  did 
not  prevent  his  accepting  the  dollar  with  a  finality  that 
betokens  "  no  change  " —  highly  embarrassing  to  my 
miscalculating,  nickel-accustomed  soul,  since  between 
us  and  actual  want  lay  but  one  more. 

When  well  past  Governor's  Island,  a  queer  craft, 
a  sort  of  super-ferryboat  was  coming  rapidly  toward 
us.  On  and  on  it  came  in  ominous  gray  paint,  which 
first  caused  me  to  doubt,  and  with  its  ring  of  white- 
clad  sailors,  which  settled  the  matter  beyond  dispute. 
A  mighty  shout  went  up,  as  the  passengers  rushed  to 


Woods  of  Arden  59 

port,  while  the  Jackies  grinned  and  doffed  their  caps. 
Then  it  was  that  we  plainly  read  Oregon  and  realized 
how  fortunate  we  were  to  pass  the  famous  battleship 
within  speaking  distance  and  at  full  speed.  Jemima, 
whose  knowledge  of  affairs  was  not  vast,  observed  how 
terribly  it  had  been  injured  —  that  "the  front  decks 
had  been  completely  swept  away " ;  and  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  a  modern  warship  does  resemble 
a  ferryboat  more  than  the  formidable  floating  fort  of 
which  landsmen  and  especially  landswomen  dream. 

A  swift  run  of  half  an  hour,  through  villages, 
vegetable  gardens  and  sunny  groves,  with  glimpses  of 
the  harbor  on  one  side  and  on  the  other  the  restful 
line  of  low  hazy  hills,  for  all  the  world  like  the  real 
country,  though  strictly  within  the  city  limits,  and  we 
were  at  Eltingville  and  enchanted  Arden.  The  woods 
were  lovely,  quite  lovely  enough  for  Rosalind  and  all 
that  merry  company  in  the  play.  While  not  the  giant 
first  growths  of  Old  England,  of  which  man  has  long 
since  denuded  the  occupied  portions  of  this  new  world, 
the  trees  were  tall  and  thick  and  green,  the  sunlight 
penetrating  hesitatingly,  and  the  air  was  deliciously 
fragrant.  As  we  sauntered  along  the  quiet  cart-road, 
so  shady  that  the  earth  was  still  wet  in  places  from 
showers  three  days  old,  there  fell  upon  us  a  peace  that 
comes  only  with  silence  and  solitude.  Not  a  house 
or  a  person  was  to  be  seen,  not  a  creature  save  the 
birds  and  squirrels  —  until  we  struck  the  mosquitoes! 

You  may  guess  what  a  mosquito  is  in  Brooklyn ; 
you  may  have  a  speaking  acqaintance  with  him  in  all 
parts  of  Long  Island;  but  for  graduation  and  a  full 
diploma   in   his   iniquities   nothing   can   surpass   these 


60  Within  My  Horizon 

same  Woods  of  Arden.  They  settled  on  our  hands, 
our  faces,  our  necks,  our  backs,  our  skirts,  our  shoes, 
in  clouds;  they  rose  into  our  umbrella  so  it  looked  as  if 
peppered ;  we  stamped,  we  screamed,  we  beat  handker- 
chiefs, perhaps  we  swore.  Out  of  the  woods  in  the 
sunshine  it  was  the  same  as  in  the  shade.  Whenever 
we  closed  the  umbrella,  preferring  sunstroke  to  lacera- 
tion, they  sought  our  ankles  rather  than  our  necks. 
The  day  was  very  warm,  and  the  atmosphere,  as 
Jemima  expressed  it,  "  tight." 

It  was  about  this  time,  when  my  companion  began 
gasping  for  breath,  and  looking  as  though  she  had  gone 
through  a  siege  of  smallpox,  that  we  caught  sight  of 
a  stone  dwelling,  evidently  the  long-sought  inn.  My 
mind  hurriedly  ran  over  the  possibilities  that  lay  in 
that  lonely  dollar,  but  alas,  for  the  dreams  of  bird  or 
salad  or  even  the  humbler  curd  or  pie.  Rough  un- 
covered tables  greeted  our  astonished  eves,  rickety  old 
chairs,  conspicuous  signs  denoting  the  sale  of  beer, 
a  host  and  hostess  plainly  devoted  to  the  beverage,  and 
seven  dogs. 

All  that  could  be  obtained,  in  fact  all  I  wanted  in 
the  circumstances,  was  sandwiches  and  beer,  served 
on  the  clothless  boards.  The  proprietor  explained 
that  the  menu  was  more  varied  under  the  influence  of 
boarders;  that  up  to  a  day  or  two  before  he  had  fif- 
teen ;  but  there  were  several  "  sets  "  and  they  "  got 
mixed  up  "  and  "  left  in  a  body."  He  had  lived  there 
five  or  six  years;  he  had  heard  of  that  season  "  when 
things  were  so  swell";  the  place  had  been  built  150 
years  ago  by  the  English  for  a  fort  or  block-house  or 
something. 


Woods  of  Arden  61 

It  was  an  interesting  building.  The  walls,  of  ir- 
regular stones  and  two  or  three  feet  thick,  as  well  as 
the  woodwork  of  the  first  story,  were  exactly  as  before 
the  Revolution.  Around  the  house  stretched  the  tall 
hedge  of  arbor  vitse,  open  spaces  cut  at  intervals  to  af- 
ford a  view  of  the  sea.  But  it  was  all  keenly  disap- 
pointing. Nothing  was  satisfactory  save  the  beer  and 
the  dogs  —  the  former  Milwaukee  and  very  cold,  the 
latter  Saint  Bernard  and  enormous.  One,  a  puppy 
of  seven  months,  was  as  large  as  a  pony  and  looked 
down  on  his  own  mother.  They  were  kindly  animals 
to  inoffensive  guests;  I  could  well  understand  what 
their  strength  and  intelligence  must  mean  to  lost  Al- 
pine climbers  —  great  helpful  creatures  with  a  world 
of  sympathy  in  their  affectionate  eyes. 

A  small  terrier  lay  on  the  landlady's  breast  as  she 
lolled  in  the  hammock  and  told  her  husband  it  was  al- 
together too  hot  to  do  anything  of  the  kind  when  he 
suggested  that  we  wait  awhile  and  be  driven  by  his 
wife  to  the  station.  So,  following  the  directions  of 
the  well-meaning  man,  we  tried  a  new  road  to  the  vil- 
lage, as  beautiful  as  that  by  which  we  came,  but 
haunted  by  the  same  bloodthirsty  insects,  from  which 
we  had  been  free  while  on  the  inn's  breezy  porch.  As 
we  passed  out  of  the  woods  into  the  highway,  we 
looked  back  to  read  on  a  high  post  beside  the  gate : 
"  Persons  :  ar  :  forbidden  :  gunning  :  and  :  trespas- 
ing  :  on  :  these  :  grounds  :  under  :  penelautey  :  of  : 
the  :  law." 

My  last  bout  with  the  mosquitoes  was  at  Xew  Dorp. 
One  flew  in  from  the  station,  sunk  his  artesian  well 
deep  in  my  wrist,  pumped  himself   full  of  my  gore, 


62  Within  My  Horizon 

then  instantly  paid  for  his  greed  with  his  life.  After 
the  anxieties  of  Staten  Island,  the  Brooklyn  home,  so 
cool  and  comfortable,  so  free  from  pests,  seemed  a 
paradise.  When  I  recounted  my  adventures  to  John, 
he  smole  his  inscrutable  smile  and  observed  senten- 
tiously : 

"  It  will  teach  you  the  value  of  time,  dollars  and 
vitality,  to  say  nothing  of  the  tyranny  of  illusions." 

Nevertheless,  I  still  dream  of  that  Arcadian  feast, 
and  sometime,  somewhere,  it  may  yet  be  mine. 


X 

MEN   OF  ACTION 

Society  as  such  never  interested  me  much.  It  has 
its  uses :  outside  a  refined  and  well-ordered  home,  there 
is  no  better  school  of  manners;  but  its  vision  is  so 
limited,  its  mental  equipment,  if  superficially  brilliant, 
is  actually  so  tiresome  that  John  and  I,  he  for  refresh- 
ment and  I  for  interest  and  pleasure,  gladly  turned  to 
something  possible  only  in  a  great  city  —  the  world  of 
those  who  achieve,  who  "  do  things."  And  when  I 
say  this,  as  I  did  to  a  noted  man  of  the  world  on  board 
an  ocean  steamship,  I  do  not  forget  his  response: 
"  Well,  look  out  that  in  the  end  they  don't  do  you!  " 

I  am  not  always  on  the  lookout;  life  would  be  in- 
tolerable if  I  were;  and  besides  I  have  a  sneaking 
sympathy  for  those  indolent,  exasperating,  yet  pa- 
thetic souls,  who  are  forced  by  circumstance  or  tem- 
perament to  live  by  their  wits  —  I  can't  help  imagin- 
ing myself  without  a  legitimate  penny,  and  wondering 
if  I  would  sail  through  half  so  well,  as  of  course  I 
should  not. 

New  York  is  the  great  melting-pot.  especially  as  to 
the  arts,  of  all  America.  At  one  time  it  did  seem  one 
constant  round  of  those  confident  and  aspiring  crea- 
tures forever  trying  to  "  express  "  themselves  —  to 
make  themselves  felt  by  a  cold  and  indifferent  public ; 
in  painting,  in  music,  in  architecture,  in  the  drama, 
and  especiallv  in  literature.     None  meant  so  much  to 

63 


64  Within  My  Horizon 

me  as  the  writers :  they  stood  first  and  the  actors  last 
—  indeed  usually  down  and  out !  The  whole  thing 
palled  in  time,  as  must  any  exclusive  diet ;  but  for  the 
moment,  at  home  or  in  club,  sometimes  on  week-ends 
by  train  or  boat,  John  proving  unexpectedly  Atlas- 
like in  what  he  could  financially  endure,  the  little  fes- 
tivities to  which  these  colorful  personalities  were  bid 
constituted  a  unique  thing  in  polite  gatherings  —  in- 
deed, made  all  else  seem  tame.  Then  while  the  com- 
pany may  have  been  of  varying  worth,  always  a  few 
fine  souls,  generally  male,  were  met  in  an  unrestraint 
not  permitted  to  the  crowd.  When  the  beginning  is 
over  the  mahogany,  or  our  old  oaken  table,  often  there 
develops  a  friendship,  an  intimacy  even,  of  rare  under- 
standing. Some  have  said  that  these  gatherings  were 
a  modest  expression  in  the  New  World  of  the  Old 
World  "  salon  intime." 

Nothing  seems  bolder  or  balder  than  to  speak  of 
prominent  men,  whether  in  terms  of  praise  or  blame, 
when  they  are  still  living,  and  particularly  when  they 
are  your  friends.  Yet,  how  omit  Peary,  then  looming, 
like  the  Arctic  sun  in  February,  just  above  the  horizon ; 
with  his  brave,  devoted  and  pretty  young  wife,  both 
full  of  the  joy  of  living  —  and  sometimes  of  its  sorrow, 
too.  And  in  Peary's  wake,  for  birds  of  a  feather  will 
flock  together,  other  high  adventurers  in  icy  lands : 
Amundsen,  Nordenskiold,  Shackleton,  Arctowski, 
Stefansson;  while  John,  but  not  I,  broke  bread  with 
Stanley,  Nansen,  the  Duke  d'Abruzzi,  and  Conan 
Doyle,  the  last  of  whom  had  not  ventured  so  far  north 
as  John,  with  his  three  relief  expeditions  to  Etah,  but 
who  attested  his  enthusiasm  by  declaring,  "  Around  the 


Men  of  Action  65 

Red  Lamp,"  that  one  never  ceased  wanting  to  go  again. 

Etah  is  on  the  shore  of  Smith  Sound,  north  of  Baffin 
Bay,  on  the  Greenland  side,  J?  north,  I  believe.  It 
was  a  mere  way-station  to  Peary,  though  the  northern- 
most Eskimo  settlement,  and  John's  ultima  thule. 
While  my  husband  acquitted  himself  with  credit,  he 
was  never  sure  that  the  ice  might  not  close  in  on  him 
for  a  winter  in  that  desolate  land,  with  insistent  busi- 
ness awaiting  him  here,  and  he  was  mighty  glad  to  see 
the  shores  of  Labrador  again.  The  meat  had  given 
out,  and  fresh  water  too,  and  the  last  morning  coffee 
was  made  with  sea-water,  but  never  a  complaint  from 
him,  said  those  who  watched  his  impassive  face.  By 
the  way,  do  you  know  that  the  Orientals  add  salt  to 
their  coffee?  And  who  is  so  good  a  judge  of  coffee 
as  a  Turk  —  except  an  American? 

The  shadow  of  the  Arctic  has  fallen  over  the  greater 
part  of  my  married  life.  How  many  have  I  seen  go 
forth  to  that  enigmatical  night,  from  which  not  a  few 
have  failed  to  return ;  but  none  so  near  and  dear  to  us 
as  the  pair  whose  long  quest  knew  not  only  triumph  but 
pain  —  pain  in  the  very  triumph,  alas !  They  are  close 
to  us  just  because  we  have  been  through  deep  waters 
together. 

Next  to  the  Pearys,  Stefansson  stands  highest  in 
my  Arctic  affections;  and  for  what  you  would  hardly 
guess  —  he  of  blond  Eskimo  fame,  the  very  least  of 
his  achievements,  as  it  happens,  but  the  one  which 
seemed  to  hit  the  public  fancy  before  more  important 
things.  To  say  nothing  of  his  indomitable  spirit,  what 
I  love  in  Stefansson  is  his  naturalness,  his  boyish  sim- 
plicity, his  young  appetite  and  unaffected  joy  in  little 


66  Within  My  Horizon 

things  —  the  delight  of  a  hostess  who  revels  in  appre- 
ciation of  her  small  offerings.  In  Rome,  at  the  In- 
ternational Geographic  Congress  of  19 13,  our  last  bit 
of  travel  before  the  hapless  war  time,  how  sympathetic 
he  was  in  the  search  for  old  places  dear  to  my  heart, 
and  how  sweetly  he  wandered  with  me  in  the  gardens 
of  the  Hotel  de  Russie,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
Pincian  Hill,  when  even  John's  patience  gave  out,  once 
the  fine  tea,  the  well-buttered  toast-sandwiches  and  a 
dozen  newspapers  were  annexed!  But  Stefansson 
loved  the  mellow  atmosphere  of  the  spacious  place 
(such  a  surprise  after  the  narrow,  stony  Via  del 
Babuino)  for  its  own  sake,  and  he  climbed  with  me 
among  the  palms  and  blooms  and  vines  to  the  ivy-hung 
stone  wall  that  shuts  out  the  highway  and  the  fashion- 
able world.  For  the  old  garden,  while  it  called, 
through  memory,  to  the  youth  in  my  heart,  also  brought 
the  tears  to  my  eyes  —  as  I  thought  of  the  little  mother 
who  was  there  with  me  once,  but  can  be  with  me  no 
more.  So  it  always  must  be,  for  the  one  who  is  left 
behind  —  the  sigh  with  the  smile. 

After  the  Russie,  with  its  expensive  tea,  we  three 
dined  at  a  native  restaurant  in  the  Via  Nazionale,  only 
four  blocks  from  our  hotel,  the  Michel,  where  we  ob- 
tained a  delicious,  parsley-sprinkled  omelet,  with  a 
crust  of  brown  sugar  on  top,  so  good  that  Stefansson 
ordered  two,  with  romaine  salad,  Gorgonzola,  plenty 
of  crisp  rolls  and  unsalted  butter,  a  pint  of  wine  and 
the  most  real  coffee  in  Italy,  for  less  than  two  dollars, 
including  tips.  Stefansson,  who  starved  at  the  Grand 
on  far  more,  was  delighted,  and  told  us  a  story.  He 
found  at  the  Michel  an  old  Harvard  classmate  who, 


Men  of  Action  67 

years  ago,  in  time  of  stress,  had  borrowed  $13  of  him. 
Now,  married  and  prosperous,  he  remembered  the  loan 
and  paid  it.  The  surprised  recipient,  in  grateful  ac- 
knowledgment, invited  the  couple  to  lunch  with  him 
at  the  Grand,  ordering  what  he  considered  a  simple 
meal.  The  bill  came  to  exactly  $13.  I  know  because 
I  saw  it. 

Not  the  least  likable  thing  about  our  guest  was  the 
fact  that  he  returned  to  our  hotel  for  the  evening  and, 
John  having  a  three  hours'  function  on  hand,  spent  the 
time  of  absence  with  me  happily,  apparently  quite  un- 
aware that  the  place,  while  handsome  and  roomy,  was 
unmistakably  a  bedroom  —  the  big  Japanese  screen 
decorating  rather  than  concealing  the  twin  beds.  Ever 
the  man  is  himself,  with  no  self  consciousness,  no  back- 
thought,  no  trivial  "  remorse."  Even  while  writing 
these  lines,  I  found  that  blithe  spirit  just  the  same. 
Nearly  dead  of  typhoid  fever,  Stefansson  was  brought 
on  a  sledge  from  the  Arctic  fastnesses  to  Port  Yukon, 
and  his  first  letter  to  me  closed  with  this  characteristic 
paragraph : 

I  hope  you  will  ask  me  to  your  house  more  than  once 
when  I  come  back,  but  once  must  be  in  the  corn-on-the-cob 
season.  I  like  it  for  its  own  sake,  for  association  going  back 
to  childhood,  and  because  of  the  evening  we  had  it  together, 
now  nearly  four  years  ago.  Tell  Anna  I  like  it  a  trifle  more 
ripe  than  common,  and  that  a  double  ration  for  a  civilized 
person  would  be  about  right  for  me.     At  least  I  feel  so  now. 

The  letter  was  dated  Liddon  Gulf,  Melville  Island, 
Oct.  20,  1 9 1 6 ,  one  year  and  a  half  in  transit,  for  it 
reached  me  in  the  spring  of  1918.     Terra  incognita  to 


68  Within  My  Horizon 

me  is  Melville  Island,  but  not  to  Stefansson.  That 
spirit  of  youth  is  eternal.  It  can  be  counted  upon  with 
absolute  certainty.  And  what  a  delight  it  is  to  himself 
and  his  friends!  Think  of  an  almost  dying  man  re- 
membering not  only  Anna  and  me  but  corn-on-the- 
cob! 

Once  I  sat  beside  Amundsen  throughout  a  long  din- 
ner, garnished  by  cold  water  alone,  and  this  Norwegian 
sailor  bore  it  like  a  hero  —  even  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
blue  eye.  Later,  after  he  had  discovered  the  South 
Pole,  at  our  own  table  I  made  up  for  the  omission, 
which  he  well  remembered  but  promptly  drowned  his 
past  chagrin  in  the  present  flowing  bowl.  The  Pearys 
were  present,  too ;  I  remember  Josephine's  neck  mag- 
nificent in  wonderful  green  tourmalines,  born  in  the 
rich  mineral  rocks  of  Maine,  and  set  to  her  order,  since 
it  is  now  decreed  that  the  green  tourmaline,  not  less 
than  the  emerald,  is  a  potent  talisman  for  one  born  in 
May  —  as  are  both  the  Admiral  and  his  wife.  Also 
at  the  table  was  little  Flo  Field,  another  bird  of  May, 
with  a  tiny  emerald  on  her  tiny  Southern  finger. 
Amundsen  was  to  lecture  in  the  evening,  introduced  by 
Peary  and  flanked  by  John,  but  by  this  time  all  were 
so  jolly  that  they  were  loath  to  take  up  business.  At 
the  time  I  resented  Amundsen's  butting  in  on  poor 
Scott's  prior  Antarctic  claims;  it  was  neither  ethical, 
sportsmanlike  nor  kind :  yet  personally  he  was  such  a 
good  fellow,  and  with  such  red  blood  under  his  warm- 
colored  hair,  that  I  really  think  he  did  not  understand. 

Shackleton  also  showed  up  once  at  the  Hamilton 
Club,  but  for  him  I  had  no  use.  He  was  a  typical  Eng- 
lishman of  the  "  get-all-you-can  "  kind,  with  a  bullet 


Men  of  Action  69 

head  and  a  calculating  eye,  to  say  nothing  of  an  un- 
dying conceit.  When  he  appeared  at  our  table,  with 
his  Lady,  he  had  been  knighted  recently,  and  neither  oi 
them  was  unaware  of  the  fact.  England  is  far  from  a 
republic,  and  therefore  she  is  grateful,  which  accounts 
for  some  things  that  otherwise  could  hardly  be  so. 

A  gentleman  and  scholar  is  Dr.  Henryk  Arctowski, 
of  Poland,  Belgium  and  the  Antarctic.  After  much 
roving,  he  towards  the  South  Pole,  and  she  on  Euro- 
pean operatic  prizes  bent,  he  married  a  foreign-appear- 
ing but  true-blue  and  charming  American,  and  as  they 
joined  the  army  of  commuters,  we  saw  a  good  deal  of 
them;  of  him  as  the  head  of  the  scientific  department 
of  the  New  York  Public  Library,  and  of  her  lecturing 
and  singing  in  aid  of  stricken  Poland,  for  she  possesses 
a  beautiful  voice,  not  unlike  Destinn's  in  quality  and 
range  —  altogether  a  talented  and  remarkable  pair. 
Mme.  Arctowska  resembles  Destinn  not  only  in  voice 
but  in  face  and  form  —  an  odd  duplication  in  appear- 
ance, temperament  and  artistic  powers.  Besides  all 
this,  Madame  can  do  one  thing  that,  in  these  times,  is  to 
me  more  than  all  —  cook!  She  learned  of  her  own 
chef  in  Brussels,  when  her  husband  was  stationed  there, 
and  to  be  invited  to  her  table  is  a  privilege  never  to  be 
declined.  Two  pictures,  two  homes,  one  at  Hastings- 
on-Hudson,  the  other  a  step  into  Xew  England,  the 
antithesis  of  each  other  in  civilization  and  conveniences 
yet  equally  rich  in  attractions  for  body  and  mind,  rise 
up  before  me  like  Inness  landscapes  or  Blakelock 
moonlight.  In  either  retreat,  as  we  lunched  or  lounged 
at  noon  or  twilight  on  the  verandah,  in  the  direct  line 
of  vision  towered  a  great,  shapely,  spectacular  elm,  an 


70  Within  My  Horizon 

unquestionable  hero  of  long  ago;  while  in  the  more 
primitive  of  the  two  places  a  winding  rough-hewn  rock 
stairway,  buried  in  rambler  roses,  led  to  the  only 
drinking-water  —  in  a  sunken  well  beyond  the  low 
stone  wall  across  the  lonely  road.  This  fetching  little 
camp,  as  it  were,  beside  the  ancestral  dignity  of  the 
Hastings  mansion,  was  christened  Belair;  but  its  gypsy 
accommodations,  in  which  figured  creamy  pot  cheese 
and  butter  just  off  the  ladle,  saltless  as  well,  to  say 
nothing  of  breads,  soups  and  salads  that  Waldorf 
Oscars  might  envy,  proved  no  more  acceptable  than 
the  eager  flow  of  conversation  or  the  fairylike  run  to 
the  station,  through  a  narrow  wooded  highway  where 
two  could  hardly  pass,  Arctowska  herself  the  un- 
daunted chauffeur,  in  the  midst  of  the  dark,  fragrant, 
mysterious  night  —  scarcely  a  bird's  flight  from  New 
York  yet  filled  with  all  the  romance,  all  the  still  beauty, 
of  the  Hudson  Valley  when  Washington  Irving  was 
in  his  prime. 

Then  there  was  Robert  Bartlett,  Captain  Bob  as  he 
was  intimately  called,  Peary's  best  man  on  the  march 
to  the  Pole  —  he  who  exclaimed,  as  he  trod  those  ex- 
clusive regions  where  none  had  been  before:  "  Why, 
it  is  exactly  like  every  day !  "  Captain  Bartlett  never 
knew  what  he  was  eating,  so  absorbed  was  he  in  his 
ambitious  plans,  nor  did  he  ever  drink  a  spirituous 
drop  —  rarely  a  cup  of  coffee,  scarcely  a  cup  of  tea. 
Perhaps  that,  his  almost  fanatical  devotion  to  cold 
water,  is  the  reason  why,  born  in  Newfoundland,  he 
became  an  American  citizen.  An  Englishman  once 
said  to  me:     "What  quantities  of  water  you  Ameri- 


Men  of  Action  71 

cans  drink !     The  stuff  must  be  pure.     Otherwise  there 
would  be  an  epidemic." 

Strong,  unconquerable  men  are  these,  in  time  of 
need,  far  from  the  haunts  of  civilization ;  yet  once 
free  from  the  care  and  the  strain  —  as  simply  happy  as 
children.  They  love  the  dare.  I  know  Captain  Bob. 
who  never  drank,  could  get  as  intoxicated  on  a  runaway 
motor  car  as  most  men  on  unlimited  champagne;  he 
positively  sang  when  everybody  else  turned  pale  — 
and  that  explains  a  lot. 


XI 

THE    ARTISTIC    TEMPERAMENT 

Indispensable  as  they  may  be  for  carrying  on  the 
work  of  the  world  and  undaunted  as  they  are  in  forging 
the  way,  men  of  action  never  interest  me  like  men  of 
letters  —  even  the  lesser  lights ;  indeed,  the  lesser 
lights  the  most  of  all.  It  is  a  queer  fact  that  the  poorer 
writers  often  make  the  richer  companions,  the  notables 
religiously  saving  themselves  for  their  books  —  there- 
fore, through  their  books  alone  should  you  know  them. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne  was  one  of  the  survivors  of 
the  exotic  cult  under  the  leadership  of  Oscar  Wilde, 
whose  friend  he  was  and  in  whose  wit  he  delighted  — 
a  cult  that  died  a  natural  death  with  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. Starting  as  a  revolt  against  the  Victorian  Era, 
its  conventions,  its  literature,  its  furniture,  its  general 
lack  of  taste,  and  its  uninteresting  morals,  the  move- 
ment was  not  large  enough,  not  strong  enough,  for  its 
place  and  time,  and  finally  some  of  its  most  conspicu- 
ous devotees  got  themselves  into  trouble  and  left  a  bad 
odor.  Yet  the  first  leading  spirits  did  have  both  in- 
tellect and  principle,  and  their  theories  about  many 
things,  and  dress  first  of  all,  were  illuminating  and 
sound ;  for  who  that  looks  upon  our  soldiers  in  uni- 
form, as  compared  with  the  gloomy  coats  and  hats  and 

trousers  of  the  civilian,  can  doubt  the  power  of  artistic 

72 


The  Artistic  Temperament  73 

habiliments  to  improve  both  the  appearance  and  effi- 
ciency of  man  or  woman? 

I  always  thought  and  spoke  of  Le  Gallienne  as  a 
blond,  when  in  fact  his  hair  was  as  dark  as  my  own. 
This  trick  of  eyes  or  memory  he  pronounced  the  re- 
sult of  unusual  psychological  insight,  since  from  child- 
hood, he  said,  he  had  believed  and  stated  that  his  soul 
was  blonde !  Richard  was  considered  handsome,  but 
not  by  men.  His  eyes  were  a  fine  gray  under  pencilled 
brows,  his  profile  almost  classic,  his  mouth  cold  and 
very  small,  his  complexion  pale  —  altogether  a  fem- 
inine beauty,  with  a  languor  that  insensibly  drew  on  the 
sympathy.  All  this,  added  to  a  tall,  lank  figure  in  a 
frock  coat,  the  long  hair  under  a  stove-pipe  hat,  when 
he  first  came  to  America,  some  twenty  years  ago,  set 
our  undisciplined  small  boys  exhibiting  very  bad  man- 
ners ;  but  he  received  their  jeers  with  complete  com- 
posure. 

While  Le  Gallienne  Americanized  himself  through 
continuous  residence  and  his  third  marriage,  the  first 
wife  released  by  death  and  the  second  by  divorce,  when 
he  arrived  he  resembled  somewhat  Robert  Hichens' 
hero  in  "  The  Green  Carnation,"  that  clever  satire 
which  was  instrumental  in  starting  its  then  anonymous 
author  on  the  road  to  fame.  Socially  and  morally 
these  gentlemen  are  a  recrudescence  of  the  Trouba- 
dors,  who  toiled  not  neither  did  they  spin,  yet  who  suf- 
fered little  from  lack  of  appreciation  or  bread. 

Le  Gallienne's  literary  output  is  an  odd  mixture  of 
success  and  failure.  The  "  Prose  Fancies,"  which 
made  his  reputation,  are  delightful  both  in  matter  and 
manner;  his  critiques  bear  the  mark  of  scholarship  and 


74  Within  My  Horizon 

reflection ;  his  "  Religio  Scriptoris  "  is  as  clear  as  it  is 
profound  —  yet  each  of  his  so-called  novels,  the  ulti- 
mate test  of  creative  power,  seems  born  of  a  hasheesh 
dream.  In  fact,  I  once  accused  him  of  using  the  drug, 
but  he  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  murmured: 
"  No,  I  am  saving  that !  " 

He  wrote  some  interesting  short  poems.  "  The  Cry 
of  the  Little  Peoples  "  was  inspired  by  his  second  wife, 
Julie  Norregard,  a  Dane.  The  more  thoughtful  Eng- 
lish writers  are  out  of  sympathy  with  British  Imperial- 
ism, feeling  it  to  be  a  potent  factor  in  provoking  war. 
But  the  metrical  composition  that  appealed  to  me  the 
most  of  all,  because  it  came  nearer  me  personally,  was 
his  tribute  to  Peary  —  written  haphazard,  en  route  by 
train  to  a  dinner  we  gave  June  20,  1898,  when  again 
Peary  was  starting  on  his  quest  for  the  North  Pole : 

Peary,  Godspeed ! 

I  hardly  know 

The  vast  and  intricate  significance 

Of  all  that  snow 

To  which  you  go; 

I  only  understand 

A  brave  man  dares  again. 

When  heroes  fight, 

Who  asks  his  trivial  why, 

So  that  they  fight  like  heroes? 

Maybe, —  it  well  may  be  — 

Peary  shall  find 

Fauna  and  flora  quite  unknown  to  me, 

And  polar  secrets  wrest 

That  shall  unlock 

Dependent  secrets  of  the  East  and  West; 

But  whatso  science  gain, 


The  Artistic  Temperament  75 

Or  whatsoe'er  accrue  to  commerce, 

This  I  think  is  best: 

The  courage  of  the  quest, 

The  fearless  eyes, 

The  dauntless  soul, 

In  them  the  Pole  ! 

So  that  the  Pole  make  Peary, 

As  all  such  dreams 

Have  power  to  make  a  man, 

I  care  not  much  that  Peary  find  the  Pole ! 

And  perhaps  the  wish  were  kind 

He  ne'er  may  find 

What  with  the  finding 

Means  a  dream  at  end. 

For  who  so  finds  a  dream, 

Strange  though  it  seem, 

Must  lose  it  as  he  finds — ■ 

'Tis  so  with  dreams. 

Peary,  Godspeed ! 

We  let  you  go 

With  hands  that  linger, 

Hands  proud  to  hold, 

Reluctant  hands  to  loose; 

And  I,  an  idle  singer, 

A  recent  friend  of  ancient  admiration, 

Would  venture  thus  to  hid  you 

A  Godspeed  full  as  kind 

As  those  who  longer 

Have  loved  you,  Peary, 

Longer,  maybe,  and  stronger, 

Yet  with  no  will  more  willing, 

Peary,  towards  you, — 

Gentlest  of  all  the  strong, 

Kindest  of  all  the  brave. 

When  the  reading  of  this  was  over,  von  conkl  hear 


76  Within  My  Horizon 

your  own  heart-throbs;  while  Peary,  usually  so  calm, 
was  visibly  affected.  Irregular  in  form,  with  halting 
rhythm,  it  yet  exquisitely  voices  the  truth.  Its  tender 
charm,  its  perfect  appreciation,  made  us  beat  our 
breasts  in  shame  that  we  ever  were  impatient  with  so 
gifted  a  creature.  Le  Gallienne  in  his  early  twenties 
seemed  a  writer  of  extraordinary  promise;  his  style, 
like  his  beautiful  penmanship,  was  a  model  of  concise- 
ness and  lucidity,  and  he  had  logic,  delicate  fancy  and 
felicity  of  phrase;  but  he  ripened  early  and,  as  he  used 
to  say  himself,  his  message  was  delivered  before  thirty. 
The  joy  of  life  went  out  of  him,  the  glow  of  first  im- 
pressions, the  desire  to  excel.  Clever  artifice,  bizarre 
romances,  even  though  clad  in  beauty,  make  no  lasting 
appeal.  In  all  his  fiction,  except  the  beginning  of 
"  The  Romance  of  Zion  Chapel,"  there  is  a  lack  of 
reality  —  of  deep,  true  feeling.  He  had  not  the  pa- 
tience to  plumb  that  difficult  art  to  its  depths.  Yet  all 
these  artistic  temperaments  are  born  with  clear  insight 
into  everything  save  their  own  shortcomings.  As  one 
cynical  observer  puts  it :  "  They  see  no  lack  in  them- 
selves except  the  lack  of  cash." 


XII 

NOTABLE    WOMEN    WRITERS 

A  number  of  women  writers  came  here  to  break 
bread,  some  to  become  friends,  but  more  to  pass  like 
ships  in  the  night.  All  were  well  known  at  the  time, 
but  the  fame  of  New  York  is  often  only  for  the  day, 
and  while  I  still  remember  their  names  and  natures 
Manhattan  may  not.  However,  as  I  often  observe, 
the  better  writers  are  by  no  means  the  better  comrades. 

Mary  E.  Wilkins,  now  Mrs.  Freeman,  I  met  very 
early  in  my  married  life,  at  the  home  of  Kate  Upson 
Clark,  who  also  unwittingly  brought  me  my  husband. 
At  that  moment  we  wrere  all  wild  over  Miss  Wilkins' 
captivating  tales  of  Xew  England  —  especially  those 
of  us  from  New  England;  and  while  she  was  visiting 
Mrs.  Clark  she  dined  with  us  one  evening  in  Carlton 
Avenue  because  Colonel  Thomas  W.  Knox,  the  popu- 
lar "  Boy  Traveller  "  writer  and  a  friend  of  John's, 
was  eager  to  meet  her  —  so  eager  that  he  was  willing 
to  leave  his  comfortable  quarters  at  the  Lotos  Club  for 
a  few  hours  and  tackle  the  wilderness  of  Brooklyn; 
for  so  New  York  always  considers  a  sister  city  almost 
as  large  as  herself  and  to  us  who  live  here  far  more 
pleasing  as  a  place  of  residence. 

"  Dolly,"    as    her    hostess   affectionately    called    the 

author  of   "  A   Humble   Romance  and   Other  Tales,'' 

was  on  that  occasion  the  surprise  of  my  life;  for  while 

she  seemed  a  demure  little  body  at  Mrs.  Clark's,  at  our 

77 


78  Within  My  Horizon 

home  she  radiantly  lived  up  to  the  splendid  yellow  she 
confessed  herself  so  fond  of.  From  her  sweet  fem- 
inine lips  came  one  after  another  the  most  daring  of 
amusing  stories,  not  even  a  wince  at  the  fateful  word 
"  damn,"  until  the  company,  looking  for  something  far 
less  human,  was  carried  by  storm  —  hypercritical 
bachelor  Knox  the  most  of  all.  As  I  never  met  her 
again  so  informally,  she  stands  out  from  the  back- 
ground of  that  home  dinner  as  a  symbol  of  witchery 
rather  than  of  the  Puritanic  conservatism  we  had 
imagined. 

It  was  indirectly  through  the  ever  hospitable  Kate 
Upson  Clark,  herself  a  writer  of  no  mean  worth,  that 
I  came  to  know  Mary  Sprague,  author  of  "  An  Earnest 
Trifler,"  which  had  a  record  success  in  its  day,  and  also 
her  sister,  Frances  Sprague  Brown,  daughters  of  Judge 
Sprague  of  Newark,  Ohio.  Mrs.  Brown  was  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  if  most  eccentric  intellectuals  I  ever 
encountered.  She  thought  out  everything  for  herself. 
Her  life-study,  though  her  life  proved  short,  was  na- 
tionality. With  a  large  experience  in  European  af- 
fairs, before  any  man  had  said  a  word  on  the  subject, 
she  put  her  finger  on  the  disease  of  the  times  —  that 
commercialism  which  was  to  grow  and  spread  like  a 
poisonous  plant  until  it  reached  a  height  of  world  de- 
struction that  would  have  appalled  even  her  darkly 
prophetic  eye.  Her  feeling  towards  America  was  a 
cross  between  love  of  its  people  and  their  ideals,  and 
contempt  for  the  practice  that  came  forth  from  them. 
She  used  to  say  that  Hearst's  American,  then  the 
Morning  Journal,  was  the  true  expression  of  the 
thought  and  feeling  of  the  American  people  as  a  whole. 


Notable  Women  Writers  79 

But  out  of  all  that  has  grown  an  ideality  which  was 
never  more  apparent  than  at  this  moment. 

Eliza  Orne  White,  friend  of  my  childhood  in  Keene, 
—  whose  beautiful  and  well  appointed  home,  with 
large  park-like  grounds,  though  close  to  the  square, 
growing  almost  every  kind  of  tree,  shrub  and  flower, 
was  a  second  home  to  me, —  like  Mary  Sprague  of  the 
meteoric  "  Earnest  Trifler,"  is  a  favorite  author  with 
the  Houghton  Mifflin  Company.  Her  eighteen  New 
England  novels  and  juvenile  stories  evince  that  sense 
of  humor,  that  keen  yet  kindly  perception,  that  sound 
education  and  high  morality,  which  has  meant  so  much 
to  the  life  of  this  nation,  to  its  homes  and  its  literature, 
since  the  days  of  Hawthorne,  Ho  wells  and  Louisa 
Alcott  down  to  Sarah  Orne  Jewett,  Arthur  Sherburne 
Hardy  and  Alice  Brown. 

Of  a  totally  different  type  is  my  erratic  Southern 
friend,  Flora  Field.  Temperament  and  mentality  she 
possesses,  but  lacks  so  far  the  unremitting  application 
that  converts  these  dynamic  forces  into  use.  She  has 
done  things,  several  fine  poems  and  short  stories  have 
been  honored  by  publication,  but  nothing  as  yet  to 
command  wide  attention  —  perhaps  because  for  years 
her  literary  fancies,  often  highly  beautiful  in  their 
way,  have  been  lost  in  the  daily  press ;  the  leading 
journal  of  the  South,  to  be  sure,  but  still  a  newspaper. 
At  this  moment,  however,  she  seems  bent  on  the  task 
the  Lord  meant  her  to  do,  and  if  her  iridescent  humor 
can  clasp  hands  with  the  deeper  note  of  passion,  and 
her  individual  style,  that  exquisite  nacre  de  pcrlc,  as  a 
friend  calls  it,  which  so  beautifies  the  most  prosaic 
facts,  can  voice  the  universal,  she  may  fully  come  into 


80  Within  My  Horizon 

her  own.  A  tormenting  diamond  in  the  rough,  with 
fitful  gleams  uttering  a  promise,  when  she  feels  the 
irresistible  urge  —  look  out  for  stars ! 

Elsa  Barker,  author  of  "  The  Frozen  Grail  "  and 
other  fine  poems,  as  well  as  much  thoughtful  prose, 
stands  out  not  only  for  her  qualities  as  a  woman,  but 
for  the  glorious  opera  we  enjoyed  once  or  twice  a  week 
together  for  two  or  three  Metropolitan  and  Hammer- 
stein  seasons.  Never  was  there  a  more  sympathetic 
companion  for  those  musical  feasts  nor  one  whose 
emotions  were  more  quickly  stirred.  Music  seems  not 
the  same  to  me  with  other  women,  and  I  miss  her 
nearness,  her  soft  little  hand,  in  the  dark  auditorium  as 
much  as  the  Wagner  which  during  war  days  we  heard 
no  more.  "  Thais  "  was  especially  congenial  to  us 
both,  its  beauty  of  sentiment  as  well  as  of  song,  and 
its  endless  orchestral  melody.  I  well  remember  the 
first  of  a  dozen  times  we  heard  it,  how  she  looked  at 
me,  dissolved  in  tears,  and  said:  "Helen,  it  is  so 
near  to  me  that  I  feel  the  monastic  life  must  once 
have  been  mine."  Mrs.  Barker  is  a  firm  believer  in 
reincarnation  and  the  presence  here  of  the  life  beyond. 

Then  there  was  Mrs.  Leonidas  Hubbard,  that  re- 
markable wife  and  widow  whose  "  Woman's  Way 
Through  Unknown  Labrador,"  to  accomplish  the  pur- 
pose for  which  her  husband  starved  to  death  in  those 
very  wilds  she  later  traversed  safely  on  her  way  to 
Hudson  Bay,  a  wilderness  no  white  person  ever  trod 
before  her,  was  the  wonder  of  her  hour  in  the  fall  of 
1907.  Her  troubled  clays  are  over  at  last,  so  far  as 
worldly  anxieties  are  concerned,  in  her  marriage  to 
Harold  Ellis,  only  son  of  the  late  John  Ellis,  Member 


Notable  Women  Writers  81 

of  Parliament,  Under  Secretary  for  India  with  Lord 
Morley,  also  a  member  of  the  Privy  Council,  and 
owner  of  large  coal  mines,  who  this  year  becomes  the 
brother-in-law  of  Lord  Parmoor;  yet  that  does  not  pre- 
vent her  inquiring  mind  from  still  searching  for  the 
truth  —  in  matters  of  the  soul  now,  seeking  some  faith 
to  cling  to,  midst  this  wreck  of  distraught  worlds.  That 
her  studies  have  led  her  into  the  East,  something  she 
never  dreamed  of,  I  learned  the  other  day,  when  she 
begged  me  to  read  Tagore's  "  Nationalism."  Those 
great  Oriental  minds,  the  lamps  of  the  world  when 
Europe  was  sunk  in  darkness,  may  perform  that  im- 
portant mission  again  ■ —  at  least  India,  the  queen, 
and  in  a  sense  the  victim,  of  them  all,  East  and  West. 

One  day  in  June,  19 19,  looking  through  the  volume 
written  by  her  when  she  was  Mrs.  Hubbard,  I  noticed 
for  the  first  time  on  the  map  of  Labrador  attached,  the 
author's  own  by  right  of  discovery,  tucked  away  in 
the  heart  of  the  Bridgman  Mountains,  that  fine  tribute 
to  the  friendship  existing  between  her  and  my  husband, 
these  exciting  words:  "Helen  Falls'";  proud  honor 
for  a  woman  even  if  wags  see  a  joke  in  the  heart  of  it! 
All  this  I  told  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Ellis,  and  she  thus 
rallies  me:  "  I  have  heard  of  Englishmen  waking  up 
to  laugh  at  a  joke  the  day  after;  but  to  think  that  it 
has  taken  you  twelve  years  to  recognize  my  compli- 
ment —  you  an  American  woman  !  What  is  the  world 
coming  to?  " 

Such  a  lovely  laurel  handed  to  me  on  a  golden  plat- 
ter and  I  asleep!  I  must  lack,  as  I  am  told,  a  healthy 
conceit.     Or  is  it  just  plain  mother  wit? 

Of  Gertrude  Atherton  we  saw  much  while  she  was 


82  Within  My  Horizon 

writing  "The  Conqueror"  in  1901.  My  review  of 
that  remarkable  historical  novel  she  generously  pro- 
nounced the  most  intelligent  she  had  seen.  Her  heart 
was  deeply  in  her  work  and  she  has  done  notable 
things.  She  possesses  in  full  measure  the  power  to 
make  her  characters  live;  her  people  breathe  and 
love  and  dare;  their  joys  and  sorrows  stir  us  as  our 
own;  she  has  respect  for  the  truth  as  she  sees  it,  and 
if  only  her  technique,  perhaps  I  might  say  her  taste, 
were  as  fine  as  her  pen  is  impassioned,  if  she  were 
as  rich  in  tenderness  as  she  is  in  color  and  invention  — 
what  miracles  might  she  not  perform !  She  could  so 
easily,  it  would  seem,  be  the  greatest  novelist  of  her 
time ;  but  with  an  exceptional  brain  goes  a  coarse  fibre, 
a  rude  petulance,  that  repels  even  while  she  attracts. 
Personally  Mrs.  Atherton  is  or  was  a  pretty  blonde, 
with  a  fine  profile  and  honest  blue  eyes.  As  an  artist, 
she  is  an  example  to  her  kind:  she  keeps  out  of  debt, 
stands  on  her  own  feet,  is  faithful  to  her  engagements, 
and  indulges  in  but  one  stimulant  —  the  cigarette.  She 
has  a  strong  mind  and  body,  but  I  am  not  sure  she 
has  a  heart,  and  if  she  lacks  lasting  charm,  it  may  be 
due  to  that  little  omission. 

A  literary  authority  used  to  say  that  Ella  Wheeler 
Wilcox  was  not  a  poet :  that  her  verse  was  noticeable 
for  thought,  but  not  for  poetic  expression  or  feeling. 
He  also  declared  that  her  continual  harping  on  sex, 
the  sex  in  trees,  flowers,  oceans,  fabrics  and  precious 
stones,  made  him  feel  as  chaste  as  Diana.  But 
whether  poet  or  not,  her  verses  appeal  widely  and  all 
her  writings  are  a  force  for  good.  Somebody  once 
said  that  she  was  a  bigger  woman  than  writer,  and  per- 


Notable  Women  Writers  83 

haps  that  is  true.  There  are  far  worse  encomiums. 
I  first  saw  Ella  in  the  old  Milwaukee  days,  before  she 
was  Mrs.  Wilcox,  before  she  was  known  as  "  the 
poetess  of  passion."  In  fact  it  was  my  fate  to  assist 
at  the  accouchement,  so  to  speak,  of  those  daring  effu- 
sions which  were  to  make  her  famous  throughout  the 
land.  I  read  and  reviewed  the  manuscript  of  the 
scarlet  volume  which  eventually  was  to  be  talked  about 
from  Dan  to  Beersheba ;  and  years  later  it  was  she  who 
first  suggested  my  doing  just  what  at  this  moment  I  am 
doing — writing  my  memoirs.  She  said  I  had  done 
so  many  interesting  things  and  met  so  many  interesting 
people  that  this  intimate  viewpoint  ought  not  to  be 
lost.  She  thought  me  indolent  and  indifferent;  she 
said,  because  I  had  no  ambition,  no  high  ideals,  no 
pressing  necessity  —  that  in  my  next  incarnation  I 
would  have  to  account  for  a  mind  I  had  failed  to  make 
full  use  of  in  this.  Probably  she  was  right,  for  it  is 
a  fact  that  I  have  no  recognizable  ambition ;  that  I 
would  rather  live  in  peace  and  quiet  with  a  few  dear 
friends,  tasting  life  slowly  in  its  sweetness  and  its 
sadness,  than  become  the  most  conspicuous  lady  in  the 
land  —  oh,  how  much  rather !  And  that  reminds  me : 
she  said  my  distaste  for  Society  was  due  to  the  fact 
that  in  a  former  incarnation  I  had  revelled  in  all  that ; 
that  a  thousand  signs  pointed  to  my  small  self  as 
once  the  Empress  Josephine  —  just  as  she  was  Marion 
Delorme.  Ella  not  only  believed  in  reincarnation, 
which  I  fancy  I  do  myself,  but  in  the  transmigration 
of  souls.  Both  of  us  love  cats,  and  she  said  we  must 
once  have  been  two  tempestuous  kittens,  alternately 
cuffing  and  kissing  each  other ;  and  it  is  a  fact  that  with 


84  Within  My  Horizon 

all  the  long  friendship  we  often  fell  out.  With  Ella 
it  was  everything  or  nothing,  and  so  it  sometimes  hap- 
pened that  the  fuller  feast  was  a  fast.  Yet  about  her 
there  was  nothing  small;  on  the  contrary,  she  never 
failed  in  appreciation,  often  over-appreciation  —  but 
she  demanded  exchange  in  kind;  and  never  would  she 
hold  out  the  olive-branch ;  always  it  was  my  fate  to  do 
that  even  when  I  still  felt  her  to  be  in  the  wrong.  They 
say  I  have  no  proper  pride ;  and  it  is  true  that  I  regard 
a  friendship  once  formed  as  so  important  that  usually 
I  will  go  far  to  recover  it  when  it  seems  to  have  lost 
its  way;  but  Ella  was  preeminently  one  who  took  her- 
self seriously  —  which  makes  life  so  difficult  for  the 
other  party.  Take  your  work  seriously,  take  the 
world,  if  you  like,  but  never,  never,  yourself. 

When  I  first  met  this  reddish-haired,  topaz-eyed 
young  poet,  with  her  unusual  fire  and  daring,  her  Swin- 
burnian  color,  music  and  glow,  her  sayings,  though 
we  knew  it  not,  were  soon  to  become  household  words. 
About  that  time  a  group  of  young  singers  arose  in 
Wisconsin,  most  of  whom  were  never  heard  of  beyond 
the  confines  of  the  State,  but  Ella  Wheeler  was  not 
that  kind.  She  possessed  not  only  a  piquant,  attrac- 
tive face,  the  eyes  instantly  alive  to  every  passing 
mood,  the  nose  unusually  straight  and  good  for  an 
American,  and  a  mouth  of  standard  shape,  if  inclined 
to  sneer,  which  she  herself  was  not,  but  also  that 
which  her  rather  prominent  chin  instantly  declared  — 
tremendous  energy. 

As  I  look  back  to  her,  standing  on  the  threshold  of 
her  career,  quivering  with  an  electricity  that  needed 
a  larger  scope,  she  seems  a  sweet  and  winning  figure. 


Notable  Women  Writers  85 

She  was  so  eager  to  live,  to  love,  to  achieve;  and  for 
this  she  was  equipped  with  health,  with  undaunted 
courage,  with  every  confidence  in  herself,  and  with  the 
will  to  work,  without  which  all  else  fails  —  but  to  work 
in  her  own  way.  Discipline,  severe  training,  the  long 
hard  road  to  artistic  perfection,  were  foreign  to  her 
nature ;  she  wanted  her  reward  here  and  now,  and  she 
had  it  —  and  who,  loving  life,  can  blame  her?  Per- 
haps, after  all,  Nature  knows  better  than  we  what  is 
possible  and  what  mere  wish. 

Her  career  was  remarkable  for  a  singularly  happy 
married  life.  Robert  Wilcox,  with  his  quiet  humor, 
his  serene  philosophy,  his  enthusiasm  for  the  role  of 
lover,  was  the  perfect  mate  to  her  emotionalism,  to  her 
sensitive  egotism,  to  her  sometimes  nervous  irrita- 
bility, to  her  thirst  not  only  for  love  but  for  the  in- 
cessant demonstration  of  it.  Fortunately,  on  all  im- 
portant subjects,  he  took  her  seriously,  and  as  a  rule 
her  own  dominant  personality  yielded  to  his  superior 
masculine  control,  exercised  judiciously  through  their 
mutual  regard  and  affection.  But  now  and  then  even 
Robert  laughed  or  rebelled.  Once  in  his  absence,  after 
a  little  dinner  at  our  house,  she  spent  the  night  here 
rather  than  accept  the  escort  of  a  perfectly  respectable 
and  inoffensive  young  gentleman  to  her  home  in  West 
58th  Street.  Despite  "  Poems  of  Passion."  Airs.  Wil- 
cox  had  her  moments  of  intense  conventionality- — ■ 
not  to  say  provincialism.  When  her  husband  was  told 
of  this  episode,  which  occurred  something  like  a  decade 
after  the  honeymoon,  he  replied,  with  a  quizzical  glance 
at  her  rather  set  countenance :  "  I  am  sorry  Ella  still 
takes  marriage  so  hard." 


86  Within  My  Horizon 

Mrs.  Wilcox  was  very  fond  of  entertaining  at  her 
beautiful  place  on  the  Sound,  and  the  lure  of  "  We 
Four  and  No  More  "  was  difficult  to  resist,  so  it  came 
about  that  one  Saturday  dinner  found  us  there.  Her 
husband  was  like  me  in  this  dislike  of  numbers,  so 
imagine  the  dismay  with  which  we  both  heard,  in  suave 
contralto  tones,  but  with  steely  resolution  beneath 
them,  that  a  party  of  fifty  would  arrive  in  an  hour  to 
exploit  some  musician  obtainable  at  no  other  time. 
Yet  in  her  almost  childlike  love  of  a  crowd,  Ella  once 
had  my  sincere  sympathy,  when  a  cad  of  an  English- 
man, one  who  apparently  commands  respect  in  the  the- 
atrical world,  stayed  for  a  whole  week  at  her  house 
without  addressing  a  word  to  her. 

This  wonderful  marriage,  and  it  was  one  of  the 
marriages  of  the  world,  just  because  they  were  both 
entirely  human  as  well  as  divinely  true,  loyal  and  fine, 
lasted  long.  In  its  earlier  stages  Ella  composed  per- 
haps her  most  affecting  poem,  the  one  in  which  she 
foresaw  the  hour  which  eventually  became  her  own. 
When  voicing  the  cry  of  man  or  woman  at  crucial  mo- 
ments, especially  the  cry  of  Love  in  ecstasy  or  anguish, 
Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  is  a  singer  of  unquestionable 
power: 

ONE  OF  US  TWO 

The  day  will  dawn  when  one  of  us  shall  harken 
In  vain  to  hear  a  voice  that  has  gone  dumb  ; 

All  morns  shall  fade,  noons  pale,  and  shadows  darken, 
While  sad  eyes  watch  for  feet  that  never  come. 

One  of  us  must  sometime   face   existence 
Alone  with  memories  that  but  sharpen  pain; 


Notable  Women  Writers  87 

And  these  sweet  days  shall  shine  back  in  the  distance 
Like  dreams  of  summer  dawns  in  nights  of  rain. 

One  of  us  two,  with  tortured  heart  half  broken, 

Shall   read  long-treasured   letters   through   salt  tears; 

Shall  kiss  with  anguished  lips  each  cherished  token 
That  speaks  of  these  love-crowned,  delicious  years. 

One  of  us  two  shall  find  all  light,  all  beauty, 

All  joy  on  earth  a  tale  forever  done; 
Shall  know  henceforth  that  life  means  only  duty. 

O  God !  O  God !  have  pity  on  that  one. 

The  sequel  to  this,  with  exactly  thirty  years  between, 
appeared  in  a  Hearst  publication  February,  191 8, 
nearly  two  years  after  her  husband's  death.  While 
lacking  the  melodic  beauty  of  the  older  poem,  and 
something  of  its  universal  appeal,  it  yet  has  some  fine 
lines : 

Friend  after  friend  goes  out  beyond  our  ken. 

Though  faithful  by  intent, 

On  their  own  pleasure  bent, 

They  are  but  human  drops  in  seas  of  men, 

And  in  our  times  of  need 

They  cannot  hear  or  heed. 

Why  even  Love,  knowing  all  earthly  bliss 
Lies  in  the  clasping  hand  and  clinging  kiss, 
Goes  out  and  leaves  us  clutching  at  thin  air, 
And  comes  not  hack  for  any  plea  or  prayer. 

But  thou,  O  glorious  Death,  art  ever  true, 

Though  hid  from  view. 

O  Friend  of  mine, 

Thou  white-robed  keeper  of  the  golden  key 

That  opens  wide  the  gate 


88  Within  My  Horizon 

Leading  to  Life  abundant  and  sublime, 
I  wait,  I  wait. 

But  hark  ye,  Death,  and  mark  well  what  I  say, 

On  that  great  day 

I  shall  push  past  thee  at  the  Golden  Gate 

And  run,  run,  run,  through  Heaven  until  I  find  my  mate. 

But  the  simplest  truth  in  the  fewest  words  voiced  by 
Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  is  the  following,  of  which  her 
editor  rightly  observed,  as  he  read  it  upon  imperishable 
metal,  "  This  is  packed  for  a  long  journey  "  : 

So  many  gods,  so  many  creeds, 

So  many  paths  that  wind  and  wind, 
When  just  the  art  of  being  kind 

Is  all  this  sad  world  needs. 


XIII 

RUDYARD    KIPLING 

It  was  my  good  fortune,  on  my  first  trip  to  Europe, 
to  know  in  London,  rather  intimately  for  a  few  weeks, 
and  afterwards  through  letters  from  time  to  time, 
Rudyard  Kipling.  The  best  things  can  never  be  told ; 
for  intimacy  has  its  obligations  not  less  than  its  privi- 
leges. A  friend  who  looked  over  this  manuscript 
suggested  that  it  be  called,  "  All  the  News  that's  Fit 
to  Print."  Everything  in  it  I  swear  to  be  true,  so 
far  as  I  am  able  to  discern  the  truth,  but  some  things 
I  have  not  said  are  true  also.  Anyhow,  as  the  French 
put  it,  to  tell  all  is  to  be  dull. 

Though  many  years  have  passed  since  I  met  this 
then  new  and  vivid  writer,  Kipling's  striking  person- 
ality can  never  be  forgotten  —  his  sensitiveness,  his 
worldly  wisdom,  far  beyond  his  years,  and  yet  his 
something  of  the  child.  At  that  time  he  had  only  just 
become  conspicuous.  He  was  new  to  London,  some- 
what homesick  for  the  warmth  of  India,  rather  lonely 
in  his  bachelor  quarters,  and  considerablv  disgusted 
with  his  compatriots  that  they  permitted  him  to  be 
lonely.  Indeed  I  had  quite  a  time  finding  him,  and  a 
worse  time  discovering  anybody  who  had  ever  heard 
of  him  —  as  I  had  not  myself  until  peremptory  orders 
from  home  bade  me  look  up  the  rising  literary  sun. 
This,    after   he   had    written   the   best   things   he   ever 

80 


90  Within  My  Horizon 

wrote.  As  soon  as  his  output  deteriorated,  the  world 
took  him  fondly  to  its  bosom  —  according  to  the  way 
of  undiscriminating  worlds. 

Because  of  his  appreciation  only  by  comparatively 
few,  and  a  good  part  of  them  our  own  Americans, 
for  his  note  was  almost  too  daring  for  the  hidebound 
English,  who  are  not  in  bulk  an  artistic  people,  Kip- 
ling was  at  that  time  still  unspoiled,  with  buoyant  self- 
confidence  rather  than  the  tiresome  conceit  which  took 
possession  of  him  later.  He  was  not  yet  out  of  the 
twenties,  with  life  all  before  him,  and  living  in  Em- 
bankment Chambers,  a  modest  menage  overlooking 
the  Thames,  the  walls  of  which  were  hung  with  army 
pictures  by  Detaille  and  many  well-used  pipes  of  all 
sorts  of  sizes,  while  the  tiger-skin  covering  a  couch, 
sharp  knives  hanging  above,  seemed  even  in  death  not 
free  from  menace  —  though  a  great  black  cat,  thor- 
oughly alive  and  happy,  and  much  petted  by  her  fond 
master,  restored  confidence. 

The  living  face  before  me  was  the  one  with  which 
the  world  is  now  so  familiar,  sent  out  in  the  first  au- 
thorized editions  of  his  books  (and  alas,  in  some  not 
authorized,  over  which  he  was  highly  indignant,  and 
as  to  which  certain  American  firms  were  leading  cul- 
prits), the  only  photograph  of  him  I  could  ever  endure. 
Eor  while  the  face  with  the  eye-glasses  looked  older 
than  his  years,  already  beginning  to  tell  the  tale  of  per- 
sistent labor  in  a  climate  which  must  eat  the  heart  out 
of  a  man,  it  had  not  then  acquired  the  bitterness,  the 
disillusion,  that  marked  it  later. 

Kipling,  while  born  in  India,  passed  a  healthy  boy- 
hood in  England,  returning  to  the  opulent  land  that 


Rudyard  Kipling  91 

bore  him  at  the  impressionable  age  of  sixteen.  The 
son  of  a  talented  father  who  could  draw  almost  as  well 
as  Rudyard  could  write ;  the  nephew,  on  his  mother's 
side,  of  Burne-Jones,  who  with  the  Rossettis,  William 
Morris  and  their  confreres  tried  to  make  England  ar- 
tistically over,  no  wonder  his  brain  seethed  with  as- 
pirations and  images.  He  went  at  once  into  journal- 
ism, and  for  seven  years  worked  harder  in  that  climate 
than  any  young  fellow  before  him.  He  worked  from 
dawn  till  eve  with  the  thermometer  often  far  above  one 
hundred,  in  places  where  no  substitute  on  short  notice 
could  be  obtained  for  love  or  money.  Fever  shook 
him,  cholera  took  his  nearest  and  dearest,  plague  looked 
him  in  the  eye;  but  ever  in  his  heart  was  that  tumult 
of  desire  which  is  the  lot  of  genius  and  saves  it  from 
despair.  So  he  kept  on,  sure  that  his  ideal  sometime 
would  be  realized,  though  the  deadly  heat  strained 
his  vitality  to  the  breaking-point. 

Imagine  a  man  with  his  British  nose  to  this  kind  of 
grindstone  for  nearly  a  decade,  with  little  companion- 
ship outside  the  rough-and-ready  soldiers,  and  their 
equally  ready  if  not  rough  wives,  except  the  natives 
whom  I  think  he  liked  the  best  of  all,  particularly  the 
sad  and  gentle  women;  imagine  him  with  Tommies 
white  and  Tommies  dark,  English  wives  bold  and  In- 
dian maidens  shy,  men  with  whom  he  slumbered  and 
fought,  sorrowed  and  made  merry,  watched  and  broke 
bread,  women  to  whom  he  made  love  or  hate  —  try 
to  visualize  this  and  you  will  understand  how  his 
stories  suddenly  startled  four  continents. 

Physically,  Kipling  was  not  impressive,  though  his 
lithe  frame  exuded  vitality,  while  the  cleft  chin,  strong 


92  Within  My  Horizon 

and  prominent,  told  of  many  a  battle  fought  and  con- 
quered, and  many  a  battle  to  come.  The  fine  gray 
eyes,  whose  pupils  dilated  behind  the  constantly  worn 
glasses,  filled  one  with  a  vague  alarm  for  their  health 
and  safety,  yet  they  were  eyes  which  got  a  great  deal 
out  of  life.  Never  have  I  seen  a  human  being  more 
observant,  more  alive  to  every  beauty  of  earth  and 
sky,  to  say  nothing  of  the  ever-varying  panorama  of 
humanity.  In  a  rambling  walk  through  Regent  Park 
on  a  bright  day,  first  it  was  the  shimmer  of  fair  hair 
under  the  tall  hat  of  a  stately  equestrienne  to  which  he 
called  attention;  next  to  a  pair  of  heavenly  blue  eyes 
owned  by  a  little  one  of  two ;  then  a  tender  pause  over 
the  imprint  of  a  baby's  foot  in  the  sand.  Another 
turn  of  the  walk,  and  he  fell  into  an  inspiring  retro- 
spect on  those  wondrous  white  cities  of  the  Orient, 
resting  beside  lakes  of  sapphire  in  an  atmosphere  of 
luminous  gold  —  a  vision  I  never  had  seen  then,  but 
which  I  promised  him  and  myself  should  one  day  be 
mine ;  as  it  has  been  over  and  over. 

These  may  seem  trifles  to  record  of  a  great  man, 
yet  it  is  by  way  of  the  little,  unconscious  things  that 
you  best  understand  people. 

A  few  days  later,  after  a  rush  to  Paris  and  back,  he 
came  to  our  hotel,  gasping:  "I've  seen  a  man  die, 
Plelen,  I  have  seen  a  man  die!  "  Half  an  hour  later, 
as  we  jogged  along  in  a  "  growler  "  to  a  unique  little 
cafe  he  affected,  far  from  fashion  and  deep  in  "  the 
City,"  it  was  a  brief  history  of  the  church  of  Saint 
Martin's  in  the  Fields,  which  we  passed.  At  dinner 
he  gave  me  kingfish  done  a  certain  way ;  and  he  didn't 
care  for  sweets,  but  he  did  for  rich  old  cheese,  and 


Rudyard  Kipling  93 

champagne  that  went  promptly  to  my  head.  But 
amidst  it  all  I  learned  that  he  could  be  very  cross  in- 
deed when  hitting  the  wrong  evening  for  a  dinner  to 
which  he  had  been  bid.  "  No  dinner  to-night,"  the 
inopportune  guest  raged,  "  and  why  the  devil  isn't 
there  a  dinner?"  Also,  when  overburdened  with  re- 
porters seeking  interviews,  he  would  calmly  look  them 
in  the  eye,  as  they  inquired  for  Mr.  Kipling,  and  reply : 
"Go  up  higher  — fifth  floor." 

Kipling  had  a  pronounced  taste  for  American 
women  (he  eventually,  as  you  know,  married  one), 
but  he  did  not  like  their  voices,  though  graciously  ex- 
cepting my  own.  He  impinged  on  the  subject  and 
asked  me  why  they  were  so  loud,  shrill  and  nasal.  I 
couldn't  tell  him,  since  I  had  wondered  myself.  Be- 
side what  a  friend  calls  "  that  cool  contralto  "of  well- 
bred  English  women,  the  American  scream  must  indeed 
be  distasteful. 

Kipling  said  his  father  was  of  Dutch  descent,  but 
that  on  his  mother's  side  he  inherited  three  nationali- 
ties, English,  Scotch,  Irish.  I  was  glad  to  hear  him 
speak  of  these  as  separate  nationalities,  though  his  fu- 
ture Imperialism  was  to  turn  a  blind  eye  that  way.  I 
wound  up  the  subject  by  saving  that  I  believed  there 
was  an  Asiatic  sultana  connected  with  his  evolvement, 
to  say  nothing  of  a  heathen  goddess  and  a  Bengal  tiger 
or  two  —  for  his  eyes  were  precisely  like  the  tiger's  in 
the  zoo,  both  in  color  and  expression.  He  fell  in  with 
the  idea  rapturously,  and  in  a  subsequent  letter  drew 
marginal  pictures  of  these  unconventional  ancestors, 
with  comments  gusty  and  hilarious  —  a  unique  Kip- 
lingesque  which   I   still  possess.     lie  is  as  expert   in 


94  Within  My  Horizon 

pen-and-ink  sketches  as  his  father,  who  frequently 
amused  himself  by  illustrating  his  son's  stories. 

Kipling  is  <a  devoted  "  family-man,"  first  to  his 
parents  and  later  to  his  wife  and  children.  He  not 
only  possesses  the  good  old  bourgeois  instinct  of  fidel- 
ity to  one's  own,  the  heritage  of  well-balanced  human 
beings,  but  with  all  his  irritability  he  is  tender  and  re- 
fined. 

Perhaps  the  most  striking  characteristic  of  Kipling's 
conversation  is  its  insight.  Every  possible  impulse  or 
motive  of  human  conduct  seems  as  clear  as  day  to  him. 
This  exceptional  vision  is  indicated  by  the  deep-set  eyes 
under  heavy  brows,  as  dark  as  his  hair,  and  is  part  and 
parcel  of  his  unusual  acuteness  of  hearing  —  like  a 
hound's;  as  well  as  his  almost  feminine  sensitiveness 
to  odors.  When  I  spoke  of  his  insight,  sympathy  and 
understanding,  as  expressed  in  the  story  he  read  aloud 
to  me  in  manuscript,  "  Without  Benefit  of  Clergy," 
the  most  exquisite  of  his  many  fine  things,  he  answered 
meditatively :  "  I  have  insight,  but  neither  sympathy 
nor  understanding." 

I  wonder !  He  impressed  me  as  a  man  who  could 
and  would  cling  to  the  truth,  and  that  is  all  the  best 
of  us  can  do.  But  he  was  a  young  man,  just  getting 
his  pace  as  a  writer  of  note,  and  not  entirely  above  dis- 
sembling to  himself.  He  certainly  proved  a  dear  and 
charming  companion  to  the  few  to  whom  he  was 
drawn,  but  good  manners  were  not  his  strong  point 
when  his  feelings  did  not  coincide.  Alas,  that  genius, 
unlike  high  rank,  does  not  necessarily  assume  obliga- 
tions! 


XIV 

THE    MANDALAYS 

Along-  with  those  of  the  great  world  went  lifelong 
intimacies  hardly  less  notable  in  their  way  and  often 
far  more  interesting  than  such  as  bore  the  bright  hall- 
mark of  fame.  With  all  my  running  around  in  for- 
eign lands,  the  only  people  I  have  deeply  cared  for 
have  been  my  own  Americans,  and  of  these  two  mature 
companions  of  my  youth  stand  out  prominently.  Gen- 
eral Charles  King,  gallant  soldier  and  loyal  friend, 
came  into  my  life  on  -a  huge  box  of  flowers,  after  I 
had  reviewed  his  first  novel  of  the  army,  "  The  Col- 
onel's Daughter,"  one  of  the  most  delightful  military 
stories  ever  written.  As  I  did  not  know  he  lived  in 
Milwaukee,  his  quick  response  to  my  utterance  in  the 
Milwaukee  Sentinel,  his  father's  old  paper,  was  not 
only  a  pleasure  but  a  complete  surprise.  While  he 
never  again  did  anything  quite  so  good  as  that  maiden 
effort,  he  made  a  lot  of  money  out  of  its  many  popu- 
lar successors,  and  his  personality  stands  out  as  the 
maximum  of  varied  talent  and  charm  in  an  officer  and 
a  gentleman. 

Another  friend  of  that  early  period,  who,  like  King, 
has  remained  in  my  life  to  this  day,  is  F.  A.  Carle,  of 
Minnesota's  famous  Twin  Cities,  in  both  of  which  he 
was  a  journalistic  power,  until  a  fall  from  his  horse 
a   few   years   ago    forced   him   to   retire    from   active 

95 


96  Within  My  Horizon 

service.  Mr.  Carle  was  my  superior  officer  on  the 
Pioneer  Press,  for  which  I  wrote  a  bit  after  leaving 
the  Milwaukee  Sentinel,  and  a  mighty  hard  task-mas- 
ter he  proved.  With  his  pointed  beard  and  dazzling 
wit,  his  caustic  crkicism  and  subtle  philosophy,  he 
realized  to  the  life  my  conception  of  the  Franco-Ger- 
man period  of  Romanticism,  some  of  whose  literature 
I  keenly  enjoyed.  Carle  was  a  man  of  fiery  feelings 
who  yet  knew  constancy,  and  if  his  play  of  thought 
at  times  was  a  little  on  the  order  of  coruscation,  it  was 
at  heart  broad  and  sound. 

Nor  should  I  omit  the  Cavalier  of  Virginia,  who 
sometimes  refers  to  himself  as  forty  years  of  age  but 
oftener  as  one  thousand.  While  his  great-grandfather 
was  one  of  the  most  daring  as  well  as  profane  officers 
in  the  Revolutionary  Army,  and  his  great-uncle  was  a 
respected  professor  of  Princeton  College,  his  own 
flamboyant  youth  in  England,  running  through  his 
substantial  inheritance,  ably  assisted  by  our  ever- 
ready  English  cousins,  would  be  a  sad  commentary  on 
these  honored  worthies  had  not  the  years  following 
transmuted  base  metal  into  finest  gold.  Strange,  how 
Providence  turns  even  our  acts  of  evil  to  good  account 
if  only  the  essential  stamina  is  there.  If  this  young 
Virginian  of  headstrong  will  and  passionate  desire 
had  not  dissipated  his  substance,  the  great  lesson  of 
self-denial  would  not  have  been  learned;  if  he  had  not 
suffered,  had  not  gone  into  the  depths,  he  might  never 
have  known  the  glory  of  the  heights  —  and  so  all 
works  out  for  the  fulfillment  of  the  Divine  Will. 
To-day,  when  he  has  learned  through  the  cloister  not 
less  than  the  crowd,  both  thought  and   feeling  dwell 


The  Mandalays  97 

within  that  slender  frame,  and  while  the  lamp  of  life 
sometimes  burns  low,  it  may  live  to  flash  still  lovelier 
radiance,  because  of  the  eternal  vision,  before  this 
earthly  round  is  done. 

General  King  unwittingly  became  the  connecting 
link,  one  happy  evening  at  our  house,  between  Society 
and  Bohemia.  Almost  accidentally  he  attended  in 
amused  bewilderment,  the  bewilderment  of  the  West 
over  certain  pranks  in  the  East,  one  of  our  Mandalay 
dinners  which  Osborne  always  thereafter  referred  to 
as  "  a  peach."  For  that  night  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 
and  handsome  Kate  Jordan  each  danced  a  captivating 
pas  scitl,  Kate  radiant  over  the  success  of  her  "  Kiss 
of  Gold,"  while  Julie  Opp,  ravishing  in  pale  pink,  re- 
cited stirring  poems,  Martha  Jordan  tickled  us  with 
her  inimitable  humor,  Howard  Seely  tried  to  look  in- 
different to  the  fuss  over  "  A  Border  Leander,"  and 
Duffield  Osborne  did  not  apologize  for  his  somnolent 
"  Spell  of  Ashtoroth."  All  these  brave  titles  are  but 
words  to  you  now,  though  once  they  represented  not 
only  young  heart-beats  but  such  well-known  publishers 
as  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Company,  D.  Appleton  &  Com- 
pany, Charles  Scribner's  Sons  and,  through  Osborne's 
last  and  best  book,  years  after,  Henry  Holt  &  Com- 
pany. The  Lippincotts  also  were  King's  publishers, 
but  Mrs.  Wilcox,  the  biggest  money-maker  of  them 
all,  except  King,  had  to  be  contented  with  The  Belford 
Company,  and  later  with  Conkey  of  Chicago.  So  runs 
the  course  of  talent  in  the  hands  of  the  publishers;  a 
matter  of  luck,  it  seems  to  the  onlooker  —  but  maybe 
it  is  governed  by  immutable  laws. 

More  than  once  have  1  listened  to  the  mandate  that 


98  Within  My  Horizon 

I  tell  something  about  the  Mandalays,  and  more  than 
once  have  I  tried  and  failed;  failed  so  badly  that  I  am 
coming  to  think  they  were  not  so  much  people  as  a  state 
of  mind  —  like  that  invoked  by  the  spring,  in  its  mys- 
terious promise ;  by  the  sweet  melancholy  of  the  au- 
tumn ;  by  summer  noons  in  swoon  or  slumber.  Still, 
there  was  a  corporeal  form  to  this  brief  reign  of  sen- 
suous delight ;  there  sure  were  a  dozen  charming  human 
beings  sailing  for  a  moment  on  a  seductive,  uncharted 
sea;  and  if  the  time  was  short  as  to  set  days  and 
months,  it  was  long-lingering  in  the  mind  —  just  be- 
cause it  could  never  return. 

Its  beginning  was  casual  enough  —  simply  a  man 
and  a  guitar ;  the  man  Duffield  Osborne,  the  guitar  our 
Swedish  maid's.  Osborne  was  of  a  type  continually 
growing  rare  in  this  workaday  world.  His  great- 
grandfather was  among  the  generals  kissed  by  Wash- 
ington at  the  Farewell,  he  was  the  son  of  a  gentleman 
whose  code  was  Thackeray's  own,  and  often  did  Os- 
borne hear  it  recited  at  his  father's  knee : 

"  Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 

Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part, 
And  bow  before  the  awful  will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart. 
Who  misses  or  who  wins  the  prize  — 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can ; 
But  if  you  fall  or  if  you  rise, 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman." 

Orphaned  early,  he  graduated  from  Columbia,  and 
was  trained  for  the  law,  which  he  came  to  hate.  He 
used  to  say  that  he  shivered  with  repugnance  every 


The  Mandalays  99 

time  he  heard  the  step  of  a  client  outside  his  office 
door.  So  he  deliberately  turned  his  back  on  a  pro- 
fession in  which,  with  his  combative  instincts  and  his 
argumentative  mind,  he  might  have  excelled,  and  be- 
gan to  play  a  rather  poor  hand  at  the  literary  game. 
He  could  count  upon  the  income  of  a  small  inheritance, 
and  he  forthwith  coined  a  word  and  proclaimed  him- 
self a  "  leisurist,"  and  this  in  a  country  like  America 
none  but  women  can  afford  to  do.  Except  for  a  few 
short  stories  of  gossamer  delicacy  and  subtle  humor, 
the  scenes  laid  in  society's  most  select  camping  grounds, 
and  as  many  poems,  noticeable  more  for  scholarship 
than  feeling,  he  devoted  himself  to  historical  novels  — 
safe  refuge  for  those  who  want  to  write  great  fiction 
but  lack  the  high  creative  gift.  At  last  he  found  a 
medium  congenial  if  not  remunerative  in  engraved 
gems,  at  which  he  became  an  expert,  and  in  time  pub- 
lished a  really  valuable  volume,  doing  in  that  line  what 
I  tried  to  do  for  precious  stones  —  convert  voluminous 
tiresome  detail  into  a  readable  form.  For  almost  a 
quarter  of  a  century  Osborne  was  Secretary  of  the 
Authors'  Club  and  lived  in  the  Tower  of  Madison 
Square  Garden. 

A  letter  from  Zona  Gale  indicates  —  what  I  fear  I 
have  failed  to  —  a  truer  side  to  Osborne's  somewhat 
complex  nature,  and  as  she  saw  more  of  him  at  one 
time  than  we  did,  and  never  was  oblivious  of  his  finer 
qualities,  1  want  you  to  read  her  words,  too: 

The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  in  19 12  or  '13.  I  was  at 
Professor  Trent's  one  evening  and  Mr.  Osborne  came  to 
call,  and  he  and  Dr.  Trent  walked  home  with  me.  He 
seemed  quite  the  same  then.     There  was  something  rare  and 


100  Within  My  Horizon 

fine  in  him,  in  spite  of  what  the  years  may  have  done  to 
him.  I  think  his  theory  of  life  must  have  failed  him  —  that 
"  leisurist "  business ;  and  yet  it  was  a  rational  revolt  against 
the  brute  mentality  (as  Foster  Coates  used  to  call  it)  of  New 
York,  and  the  eating  of  one's  time  by  material  affairs.  "  I 
have  been  in  London  thirteen  years,"  writes  Yoshio  Markino 
in  the  last  chapter  of  "  A  Japanese  Artist  in  London,"  "  but 
most  of  the  time  was  wasted  in  getting  my  living." 

Here  you  recognize  the  eternal  war  of  the  artist  with 
what  he  considers  the  non-essentials;  and  which  were 
the  non-essentials  in  an  earlier  and  simpler  age,  before 
Commercialism  bound  us  in  its  iron  ring  and  came  near 
extinguishing  the  modern  nation's  soul. 

In  his  "  Nationalism  "  Rabindranath  Tagore  says : 

In  our  physical  appetites  we  recognize  a  limit.  We 
know  that  to  exceed  that  limit  is  to  exceed  the  limit  of 
health.  But  has  the  lust  for  wealth  and  power  no  bounds 
beyond  which  is  death's  dominion  ?  In  these  national  carni- 
vals of  materialism  are  not  the  Western  people  spending 
most  of  their  vital  energy  in  merely  producing  things  and 
neglecting  the  creation  of  ideals?  .  .  .  Tbe  true  distinction 
of  man  from  animals  is  in  his  power  and  worth,  which  are 
inner  and  invisible.  But  the  present  day  commercial  civil- 
ization is  not  only  taking  too  much  time  and  space  but  kill- 
ing time  and  space.  Its  movements  are  violent,  its  noise 
is  discordantly  loud.  It  is  carrying  its  own  damnation  be- 
cause it  is  trampling  into  distortion  tbe  humanity  on  which 
it  stands.  ...  It  has  no  fear  of  the  chasm  that  is  opening 
wider  every  day  between  man's  ever-growing  storehouses 
and  the  emptiness  of  his  hungry  humanity.  Under  the  end- 
less strata  of  wealth  and  comforts,  earthquakes  are  being 
hatched  to  restore  the  balance  of  the  moral  world,  and  one 
day  the  gaping  gulf  of  spiritual  vacuity  will  draw  into  its 
bottom  the  store  of  things  that  have  their  eternal  love  for 
the  dust. 


The  Mandalays  101 

Let  your  crown  be  of  humility,  your  freedom  the  freedom 

of  the  soul. 
Build  God's  throne  daily  upon  the  ample  bareness  of  your 

poverty. 
And  know  that  what  is  huge  is  not  great  and  pride  is  not 

everlasting. 

John  Galsworthy  believes  as  well  as  I  that  beauty 
and  simplicity  are  the  natural  antidotes  to  the  fever- 
ish industrialism  of  our  age  —  that  beauty  of  thought 
and  feeling  which  transforms  the  earth,  and  that  sim- 
plicity of  life  and  living  which,  if  we  are  to  become  a 
great  power  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  must  prove 
America's  vital  ally  and  inspiration. 

It  seems  as  if  I  had  known  Duffield  Osborne  a  life- 
time. Since  that  day  when  he  appeared  here  at  a  din- 
ner of  strangers  to  him,  and  proved  at  once  the  delight- 
ful guest  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  a  hostess,  he  became 
our  "  steady "  and  the  unconscious  founder  of  the 
Mandalays.  Most  picturesque  he  was  in  appearance, 
with  his  brilliant  dark  eyes,  his  prematurely  gray  hair, 
his  well-shaped  features  and  hands.  Twanging  the 
strings  of  the  guitar  for  accompaniment,  he  would 
sing  with  beautiful  effect  Kipling's  words  to  his  own 
haunting  tune,  and  follow  "  Mandalay "  up  with 
"  Danny  Deever,"  also  to  his  own  music,  in  a  way  that 
makes  the  popular  version  of  either  of  these  songs 
sound  utterly  lifeless.  With  "Mandalay"  we  would 
glow,  as  we  would  freeze  with  "  Danny  Deever,"  and 
our  hair  stand  on  end.  The  secret,  mostly  of  dramatic 
power,  though  the  melody  was  mighty  taking  as  well, 
died  with  him;  for  write  the  notes  out  he  could  not, 


102  Within  My  Horizon 

and  have  it  done  by  an  expert  he  would  not  —  he  was 
too  lazy,  indifferent  and  economical. 

Yet  he  was  one  who  in  the  youthful  ardors  of  a 
victorious  Columbia  boat-race  almost  ruined  his  voice 
with  prodigal  shouting  —  a  voice  which  ever  after  was 
somewhat  hoarse;  though  this  did  not  seem  to  inter- 
fere with  his  unique  singing  —  since  the  power  was 
based  on  an  appeal  to  the  imagination.  All  we  shall 
have  of  this  now  is  what  we  remember,  for  Osborne 
died  November  20,  191 7.  It  would  take  an  artist  of 
high  order  to  reproduce  the  languor  of  his  manner, 
the  deep  introspection  of  his  mood,  the  clear,  youth- 
ful swing  of  "  On  the  road  to  Mandalay,"  the  lilt  of 
the  "  neater,  sweeter  maiden  in  a  cleaner,  greener 
land";  the  profound  contempt  for  the  "beefy  face 
and  grubby  'and."  No  one  on  earth,  in  the  circum- 
stances, could  look  more  the  captivating  troubadour, 
more  one  with  the  song,  the  moment  and  the  instru- 
ment, than  just  he. 

"  Oh,  all  you  hearts  about  the  world 

In  whom  the  truant  gypsy  blood 
Under  the  frost  of  this  pale  time 

Sleeps  like  the  daring  sap  and  flood, 

You  whom  the  wander-spirit   loves 

To  lead  by  some  forgotten  clue 
Forever  vanishing  beyond 

Horizon  brinks  forever  new  " — 

Whatever  came,  good,  bad  or  indifferent,  lay  it  to 
Kipling.  His  "  Mandalay  "  has  set  more  pulses  beat- 
ing than  ours.  Yet  it  troubled  mine  so  much  at  last 
that  I  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  packed  my  trunk 


The  Mandalays  103 

and  went  to  Mandalay ;  wherein  I  was  a  fool  —  to  try 
to  run  down  a  dream.  But  that  is  another  story. 
Wherever  the  Mandalays  happened  to  live,  when  the 
lamps  were  lit  and  the  stars  came  out,  their  souls  burst 
the  confines  of  New  York  and  flew  away  to  Cathay. 
As  Richard  Hovey  put  it,  in  those  glad  days  when  he 
was  restless  and  alive : 

"  I  am  fevered  with  the  sunset, 
I  am  fretful  with  the  bay, 

For  the  wanderlust  is  on  me, 
And  my  soul  is  in  Cathay, 
(And  my  soul's  in  Mandalay)." 

We  dined,  we  supped,  we  saw  Melba  in  "  Lucia," 
Calve  in  "  Carmen  "  and  Emma  Eames  in  "  The  Magic 
Flute  " —  those  three  wondrous  singers  with  the  cre- 
mona  voice  quality ;  and  one  day  John  lugged  the  whole 
twelve  of  us  to  a  Hygeia  visit  at  Old  Point  Comfort, 
mercifully  cut  short  by  his  sudden  departure  for  the 
Arctic  —  since,  as  he  said,  another  month  of  it  would 
have  sent  him  to  the  poorhouse. 

Years  passed.  Occasionally  we  met,  but  not  pri- 
marily as  Mandalays.  Martha,  the  youngest  and  lit- 
tlest, married  first,  and  ten  years  later  her  blithe  spirit 
passed  beyond;  then  came  the  marriage  of  my  knight 
to  John's  lady,  which  gave  us  another  gray  hair,  though 
subsequent  divorce  finally  seemed  to  right  the  wrong; 
but  before  this  Julie  Opp  married  William  Faversham, 
and  we  braced  up  and  gave  one  more  dinner  —  at  the 
Hamilton  Club,  January  2j,  1903.  Many  were  the 
flowers,  which  Le  Gallienne  used  to  insist  were  a  rank 
American   extravagance,   but   which   economical   John 


104  Within  My  Horizon 

believes  have  a  distinct  psychological  effect  on  an  as- 
sembled company;  and  in  the  midst  of  them  was  a 
small  bronze  Buddha  of  delicate  workmanship,  torn 
from  its  contemplation  of  the  ages  in  Burmah  by  the 
valiant  fist  of  Frederic  Vermilye  in  his  tour  of  the 
world,  and  presented  gallantly  to  his  host  and  hostess 
on  the  spot.  Also  there  was  the  old-time  guitar  to 
string  together  the  pearls  of  Kipling's  song;  there  was 
the  same  modern  troubadour  to  set  the  gems  in  har- 
monies of  his  own  design;  and  there  were  the  same 
dreaming  souls  to  conjure  visions  out  of  the  fragrant 
dusk  and  the  haunted  air;  in  short,  there  was  again 
love  and  life  and  laughter.  No  wonder  all  seemed  a 
shadow  outside  this  influence  which  was  the  more 
potent  that  it  could  not  be  defined. 

Not  only  this,  but  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  an  original 
Mandalay  and  jolly  good  fellow,  traced  for  our  edifi- 
cation the  course  of  champagne  as  follows:  first  the 
Golden  Mist;  then,  the  Glorious  Glow;  last,  the  Mys- 
terious Maze.  To  which  somebody  responded  that 
she  had  forgotten  the  sad  ultimate  phase  —  next  morn- 
ing, the  Gloomy  Glums.  As  the  evening  waned,  Mrs. 
Wilcox  surprised  us  with  these  lines: 

ONE  TO  THE  OTHERS 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
Far  the  call  and  long  the  way, 
Years  have  used  their  cunning  art 
Mandalays  to  keep  apart ; 
Wanderers   by   sea    and   land, 
Every  member  of  this  band. 
Tropic  skies  and  Arctic  seas  — 
Mandalays  have  gazed  on  these. 


The  Mandalays  105 

Time  has  sweetened  all  our  lives, 
Maidens  three  have  changed  to  wives, 
Lovers  ten  we  number  now, 
One  to  hymen  yet  must  bow. 
Bridal  spirit  of  the  hour, 
Touch  him  with  thy  magic  power; 
Hive  him  into  homing  ways  — 
Troubadour  of  Mandalays ! 

After  this  I  took  out  a  letter  from  Kipling,  with  a 
sketch  of  himself  in  pen-and-ink,  under  which  was 
written,  "  All  spectacles  and  jowl."  It  was  dated 
Capetown,  South  Africa,  and  it  said  his  wanderings  in 
that  part  of  the  world  were  like  walking  through  the 
Book  of  Genesis.     The  closing  lines  were  these : 

"  What  you  tell  me  about  Mandalay  is  surprising.  It 
doesn't  seem  to  be  much  of  a  poem  to  have  any  great  in- 
fluence on  any  one  but  a  soldier  who  has  '  been  there,'  as 
the  saying  is ;  but  I  trust  the  influence  was  not  altogether 
bad." 

Perhaps  it  is  true,  what  he  said  to  me  of  himself 
years  before,  that  he  had  insight,  but  not  sympathy 
or  understanding. 


XV 

RICHARD    HOVEY 

The  summer  of  1896  was  a  summer  of  music,  emo- 
tional heat,  gorgeous  color  and  light  airs ;  and  right 
into  the  rich  blaze  of  August,  tempered  by  cooling 
drinks  and  Seidl-by-the-Sea,  precisely  at  the  perfect 
moment  and  entirely  foot  free,  walked  Richard  Hovey 
—  and  into  arms  opened  wide  to  receive  him.  For 
we  had  waited  long;  at  least  being  young,  we  thought 
it  long;  it  seemed  many  months  that  we  had  been 
anxious  to  welcome  the  rising  young  poet  amidst  the 
informalities  of  home.  Once  from  Boston  we  had 
received  a  telegram  in  place  of  himself  as  guest  of 
honor  at  what  became  in  spite  of  his  defection  a  charm- 
ing dinner,  but  didn't  the  hostess  rage  and  vow  up  and 
down  that  no  more  would  Hovey  be  bid  by  her !  Then, 
one  languid  afternoon  in  June,  he  walked  in  unan- 
nounced, and  stayed  for  hours,  yet  would  break  no 
bread  with  us.  That  was  the  last  we  had  seen  of 
him. 

He  was  stockily  built,  with  broad  shoulders,  but  of 
only  medium  height.  His  heavy  dark  hair  inclined 
to  length  and  curl ;  his  beautiful  sombre  eyes  were  ever 
fixed  in  dream  or  on  one's  own.  Though  given  to 
reverie,  to  introspection,  he  enjoyed  outdoor  life,  the 
life  of  the  camp  and  the  road,  not  a  whit  less  than 
music  and  poetry.     His   was  a   broad   and  powerful 

106 


Richard  Hovey  107 

personality,  yet  not  free  from  vanity,  as  when  he  ob- 
served to  me :  "  At  this  time  there  are  only  three 
great  poets  in  the  world  —  Maeterlinck,  Verhaeren 
and  myself."  He  also  said  that  instead  of  the  "  Rich- 
ard "  I  loved  so  well,  he  wished  he  had  been  named, 
like  the  men  of  France,  Frangois-Marie  or  some  such 
combination ;  but  when  I  reminded  him  of  it  not  so 
very  long  after,  he  exclaimed :  "  I  must  have  been 
drunk! " 

His  self-laudatory  remarks  were  uttered  with  the 
bland  unconsciousness  of  a  child;  one  couldn't,  of 
course,  dispute  either  the  premises  or  the  conclusions. 
Such  things  are  embarrassing  because  they  aren't  done ; 
we  leave  it  to  the  other  fellow  —  and  he  knew  it,  too ! 

Hovey  was  a  Psi  U.,  which  in  itself  endeared  him 
to  John,  who  met  him  at  the  Sixtieth  Annual  Conven- 
tion of  the  fraternity,  at  Dartmouth  College,  Han- 
over, his  Alma  Mater,  where  for  the  first  time  he  read, 
in  manuscript,  perhaps  the  most  telling  of  his  achieve- 
ments— "Comrades."  The  original,  a  long  invoca- 
tion in  blank  verse,  begins : 

Again  among  the  hills; 

The   shaggy  hills  ! 

The  clear  arousing  air  comes  like  a  call 

Of  bugle  notes  across  the  pines,  and  thrills 

My  heart  as  if  a  hero  had  just  spoken  — 

and  towards  the  close  the  four  beautiful  stanzas,  about 
all  the  general  public  knows  of  "  Comrades,"  leap  forth 
to  startle  you  with  their  immortal  stimulus  and  swing. 
He  who  loved  life  so,  and  was  doomed  to  leave  it 
early;  he  who  would  have  thrilled  to  the  terrible  war 


108  Within  My  Horizon 

as  he  did  to  all  great  and  troubling  things,  still  lives  in 
these  solemn  lines : 

Comrades,  pour  the  wine  to-night, 

For  the  parting  is  with  dawn, 
Oh,  the  clink  of  cups  together, 
With  the  daylight  coming  on  ! 
Greet  the  morn 
With  a  double  horn, 
When  strong  men  drink  together ! 

Comrades,  gird  your  swords  to-night, 

For  the  battle  is  with  dawn, 
Oh,  the  clash  of  shields  together, 
With  the  triumph  coming  on ! 
Greet  the  foe 
And  lay  him  low, 
When  strong  men  fight  together. 

Comrades,  watch  the  tides  to-night, 

For  the  sailing  is  with  dawn, 
Oh,  to  face  the  spray  together, 
With  the  tempest  coming  on ! 
Greet  the  Sea 
With  a  shout  of  glee 
When  strong  men  roam  together. 

Comrades,  give  a  cheer  to-night, 

For  the  dying  is  with  dawn. 
Oh,  to  meet  the  stars  together 
With  the  silence  coming  on  ! 
Greet  the  end 
As  a  friend  a   friend, 
When  strong  men  die  together. 

While  the  manuscript  was  still  quivering  from  the 
'author's  fervent  reading  of  it,  it  was  placed  in  John's 
hands  to  be  published  for  the  first  time  anywhere  in 


Richard  Hovey  109 

the  Standard  Union,  after  the  proof  had  become  the 
leading  feature  of  a  week-end  passed  with  Ella 
Wheeler  Wilcox  at  her  home  in  Short  Beach,  where 
all  were  greatly  affected  by  the  organ-like  rhythm,  the 
fearless  utterances,  the  majesty  of  its  mountains  and 
pines. 

During  that  glorious  August  when  he  was  detained 
in  town  on  some  business,  and  we  detained  ourselves 
according  to  our  wont,  avoiding  the  resorts  until 
emptied  of  their  guests  in  September,  Hovey  came 
often  for  afternoon  siestas  at  our  home  capped  by 
summer  dinners.  Despite  the  prevailing  opinion  that 
he  posed,  I  found  him  unaffected.  One  day  he  rushed 
in  flushed  and  tired,  saying  that  he  had  been  working 
like  a  galley-slave.  It  was  still  some  hours  before 
dinner,  and  sorry  for  his  discomfort,  I  asked  him  if 
he  wouldn't  like  a  bath.  Indeed  he  would,  and  as 
happy  as  a  boy  he  revelled  in  the  cool  water  for  the 
better  part  of  an  hour.  Though  I  was  a  young  matron 
then  and  he,  with  his  heavy  dark  beard,  looked  rather 
mature,  everybody  shouted  when  I  told  later  of  this 
adventure.  Yet  what  could  be  more  harmless  for  me 
to  propose  and  him  to  accept?  His  taste  in  food,  too, 
was  quite  as  simple  and  natural.  When  a  steak  a  la 
Stanley  was  specially  prepared  for  him  as  a  surprise, 
I  remember  well  how,  like  Peary,  he  calmly  swept  the 
snappy  superstructure,  horse-radish  and  fried  bananas, 
overboard,  saying  he  could  not  stand  such  hot  stuff. 

Afterwards  we  went  down  to  the  adorable  Seidl  con- 
certs at  Brighton  Beach,  whose  enchanting  pro- 
grammes, just  popular  enough,  just  profound  enough, 
he  enjoved  immensely.      More  than  almost  any  other 


110  Within  My  Horizon 

man  do  I  associate  Hovey  with  music.  Yet  it  so  hap- 
pened that  I  never  took  him  to  the  opera,  which  I 
often  wrote  up,  in  desirable  orchestra  seats,  at  the 
exact  balance  of  sound,  for  the  Standard  Union; 
though  he  appreciated  Wagner  not  less  than  his  friend 
Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  —  a  Nova  Scotian  who  some- 
times listened  with  me  to  the  great  "  Ring." 

In  those  ideal  concerts  at  Brighton  Beach,  with  the 
rhythm  of  the  music  meeting  the  rhythm  of  the  waves, 
Seidl  conducted  all  marvelous  things,  from  the 
grandeur  of  the  Teutonic  Titans  down  to  Mascagni's 
popular  Intermezzo,  whose  urgent  crescendo  no  other 
maestro  living  or  dead  has  been  able  to  bring  forth 
with  such  fire  and  appeal.  It  was  the  stirring  ballet 
music  from  "  Le  Cid  "  that  caused  Hovey  to  repeat 
"  Pleurez  mes  Yeux  "  with  far  greater  dramatic  effect 
than  did  Lucienne  de  Breval  —  the  tears  were  in  his 
eyes  not  less  than  in  his  voice.  His  elocution  was 
masterly  and  his  French  more  fascinating  than  any 
native  Frenchman's  who  came  our  way.  Hovey  loved 
France ;  he  had  lived  there  and  its  artistic  spirit  de- 
lighted him  while  its  cold  materialism  did  not  disturb 
him  —  but  for  me,  no  matter  what  their  faults,  Amer- 
ica and  the  Americans,  and  never  am  I  more  sure  of 
it  than  when  in  a  foreign  land. 

Our  last  music  treat  together,  that  August  of  crowded 
blessings,  did  not  come  off.  It  was  again  Seidl-by- 
the-Sea,  on  a  lovely  dark,  rain-threatening  day,  and 
the  programme  embraced  Raff's  seldom  given  sym- 
phony, the  melodious  "  Lenore."  Though  Richard 
was  eager  to  come,  an  importunate  telegram  from 
home  sent  him  flving  to  the  train,  so  I  went  alone. 


Richard  Hovey  111 

Yet  I  was  not  alone  —  far  from  it ;  for  then  and  there 
I  learned,  in  a  vague  way,  the  power  of  dream  —  my 
very  real  disappointment  turned  out  a  rich  gain. 
"  Lenore,"  with  my  friend  absent  yet  seemingly  by  my 
side  —  never  did  those  ghostly  strains,  that  weird  and 
tender  love-story,  the  pomp  and  ceremony  of  the  Mili- 
tary March  which  bore  the  hero  to  his  doom,  have 
such  power  to  move  me.  On  that  dim  day  and  in  that 
softened  mood  it  was  all  so  unutterably  beautiful  that 
I  seemed  living  on  a  star. 

Hovey  came  back  to  town  the  following  winter, 
even  occupied  a  Carnegie  studio,  and  we  saw  him 
now  and  then,  sometimes  at  his  place,  sometimes  at 
our  own,  sometimes  at  French  Charlie's,  that  bit  of 
suburban  Paris  which  had  to  die  that  the  northern 
tip  of  Bronx  Park  might  be  born.  French  Charlie's 
was  within  a  stone's  throw  of  "  Laguerre's,"  but  we 
came  too  late  to  know  that  secret  spot,  except  the 
shell  of  it,  the  weather-beaten  little  cottage,  and  the 
neighbors  were  not  certain  even  of  that.  Perhaps 
again  I  tried  to  run  down  a  dream ;  Hopkinson  Smith 
was  clever,  and  as  the  poet  says,  "  't  is  so  with 
dreams."  Harrison  Rhodes,  in  Harper's,  August, 
19 1 8,  has  this  appreciative  word  of  one  of  the  most 
engaging  of  all  sketches,  whether  in  book  or  on 
canvas : 

"  Every  writer  with  a  taste  for  food  and  local  color  must 
have  envied  the  early  good  chance  of  F.  Hopkinson  Smith, 
some  twenty  or  twenty-five  years  ago,  when  in  that  delight- 
ful paper,  '  A  Day  at  Laguerre's,'  he  made  a  little  restaurant 
by  a  little  river  famous.  He  knew  his  France  and  he  knew 
New  York,  and  his  own  affectionate,  ebullient  temperament 


112  Within  My  Horizon 

made  the  two  come  close  together,  and  the  unknown  little 
Bronx  flowing  peacefully  down  its  green  seem  to  his  readers 
for  a  decade  or  so  afterward  like  some  small  French  river 
in  that  delectable  land." 

For  a  long  Sunday  afternoon,  I  remember,  John 
and  I  ran  around  trying  to  find  French  Charlie's,  and 
nobody  knew  that  place  either,  until  finally  my  husband 
set  his  face  sternly  and  at  7  p.  m.  said  that  he  would 
dine  at  home;  and  as  home  was  fully  two  hours  away, 
all  I  could  do  was  sigh  and  draw  my  belt  a  little  tighter 

—  but  another,  happier  day  we  found  it.  It  was  di- 
rectly on  the  river  bank  at  the  sharp  turn  of  the  Bronx 
above  which,  on  the  main  line  of  the  New  Haven  rail- 
road, the  heavy  trains  thundered  past.  Yet,  in  a  thick 
little  grove  of  its  own,  with  the  lazy  country  lane  wind- 
ing by,  we  seemed  nearer  Saint  Cloud  than  that  noisy 
metropolis  towards  which  all  American  eyes  turn  and 
upon  which  all  transcontinental  lines  converge. 

In  this  ideal  and  sequestered  spot  was  the  perfect  inn, 
and  there  dwelt  French  Charlie,  a  tall,  heavy  Alsatian, 
who  dispensed  welcome  hospitality  with  a  woman  who 
was  not  his  wife,  though  possessed  of  all  excellence 
both  as  mate  and  cook ;  and  when  she  suddenly  died, 
not  only  did  it  sadden  us  to  miss  her  kind  manner  and 
good  food,  but  it  broke  up  Charlie  completely.  To 
us  it  was  the  loss  of  a  familiar  face,  and  those  simple 
yet  admirable  meals  of  French  wine  and  salad,  French 
omelet  and  fried  potatoes,  French  bread,  butter,  cheese 
and  coffee ;  but  to  Charlie  it  was  utter  demoralization 

—  he  never  smiled  again,  his  business  went  to  pot,  and 
the  city  stepped  in.  The  French  way  looks  odd  to  us, 
and  seems  whollv  unnecessarv  when  the  strength  of 


Richard  Hovey  113 

honest  affection  is  like  that,  but  I  suppose  those  who 
knew  were  scandalized  just  the  same.  Fortunately 
we  did  not  know,  and  never  saw  the  difference,  until 
just  before  Madame's  death,  when  for  a  moment  I  was 
given  a  glimpse  into  her  life  and  heart. 

Anton  Seidl  died  as  suddenly  in  1898,  and  two  years 
later,  Richard  Hovey  himself.  He  looked  so  robust, 
and  cared  so  much  for  life,  dear  Richard  of  the  great 
heart,  that  little  did  I  dream  his  coffin  would  ever  pass 
me  by.  Once  at  a  reception  in  his  Carnegie  studio,  he 
came  to  me  pale  and  tired,  and  I  asked:  "  Why  not 
just  a  congenial  handful,  with  bread  and  cheese  and 
beer?"  He  looked  at  me  with  unseeing  eyes  for  a 
moment,  then  with  that  return  to  earth,  that  dawning 
comprehension  and  tenderness  so  characteristic  of  him, 
answered :  "  A  few,  with  bread  and  cheese,  why  that 
would  be  pleasure!  " 

The  crowd  closed  in  on  him,  and  with  a  whimsical 
glance  and  sigh  he  girded  his  loins  again  and  read  one 
of  his  Arthurian  dramas  which  he  so  much  prized 
but  which  Tennyson  did  better  and  both  purloined 
from  Sir  Thomas  Malory.  The  glowing  songs  in 
"  Vagabondia  "  and  "  Along  the  Trail,"  together  with 
the  sublime  "  Seaward,"  are  all  that  truly  survive  to 
tell  of  General  Charles  P.  Hovey's  gifted  son, —  these 
inspiring  lyrics,  a  few  photographs  of  his  speaking 
countenance,  and  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  knew  him 
the  undying  memory  of  his  vivid  personality. 


XVI 

THE   DIRGE 

"  The  tide  is  in  the  marshes.     Far  away 
In  Nova  Scotia's  woods  they  follow  me, 

Marshes  of  distant  Massachusetts  Bay, 

Dear  marshes,  where  the  dead  once  loved  to  be ! 

I  see  them  lying  yellow  in  the  sun, 
And  hear  the  mighty  tremor  of  the  sea 

Beyond  the  dunes  where  blue  cloud-shadows  run. 

"Alas  he  is  not  here,  he  will  not  sing; 

The  air  is  empty  of  him  evermore. 
Alone  I  watch  the  slow  kelp-gatherers  bring 

Their  dories  full  of  sea-moss  to  the  shore. 
No  gentle  eyes  look  out  to  sea  with  mine, 

No  gentle  lips  are  uttering  quaint  lore, 
No  hand  is  on  my  shoulder  for  a  sign." 

Richard  Hovey's  "  Seaward,"  one  of  the  loveliest 
threnodies  in  existence,  was  the  tribute  by  the  poet  to 
a  fellow-poet ;  but  it  might  as  well  have  been  his  own 
elegy  —  for,  as  I  have  said,  before  he  had  hardly  begun 
to  live,  Hovey  died. 

I  am  not  sure  that  our  friend  ever  saw  Hook  Creek 
and  its  salt  marshes ;  but  he  camped  a  whole  summer  at 
Rockaway  Beach,  to  which  the  highway  from  Jamaica 
then,  as  the  trolley  now,  goes  direct,  passing  the  Creek 
—  and  never  are  we  there  without  thinking  of  him, 
everything  is  so  as  he  would  have  had  it. 

Hook  Creek,  not  so  unlike  his  description  of  Scitu- 

114 


The  Dirge  115 

ate,  where  dwelt  the  friend  he  mourned,  is  now  a  part 
of  New  York  City,  marking  its  extreme  eastern  bound- 
ary, though  a  dozen  miles  from  Brooklyn  Bridge. 
One  inch  beyond,  the  "  city  "  ceases  (and  high  taxes 
also)  and  it  becomes  rural  Cedarhurst,  but  the  keenest 
eye  can  detect  no  difference.  In  the  many  years  we 
have  gone  there,  to  muse  at  a  favorite  inn  and  eat 
delicious  clam  fritters,  the  situation  has  changed  almost 
none  at  all.  It  is  still  one  of  the  loveliest,  loneliest, 
homeliest  of  spots,  yet  within  sight  of  the  Woolworth 
Building  —  a  veritable  yet  accessible  retreat  and  solace 
for  body  and  mind. 

"  Far,  far,  so  far,  the  crying  of  the  surf ! 

Still,  still,  so  still,  the  water  on  the  grass ! 
Here  on  the  knoll  the  crickets  on  the  turf, 

And  one  lone  squirrel  barking,  seek,  alas ! 
To  bring  the  summer  back  to  me. 

In  vain  ;  my  heart  is  on  the  salt  morass 
Below,  that  stretches  to  the  sunlit  sea." 

Hook  Creek  comes  in  from  Jamaica,  describes  a  tre- 
mendous curve  and  turns  back  on  its  trail.  A  lakelike 
expanse  that  fishing-boats  affect  is  both  inlet  and  out- 
let to  the  onflowing  stream,  which  encircles  land  enougi 
to  support  a  string  of  modern  cottages,  three  small 
public  houses,  a  few  simple  homes,  two  old  bridges,  a 
strip  of  road  raised  high  out  of  harm's  way  to  ac- 
commodate the  trolley  and  what  few  land  craft  may 
pass  —  and  beyond  everywhere  the  lush  green  of  the 
marshes. 

Just  where  the  wandering  "  hook  "  rejoins  its  stem, 
forming  a  huge  question-mark  in  water,  is  the  beloved 


116  Within  My  Horizon 

inn  we  have  known  so  long,  with  its  latch-string  always 
out  and  its  fare  the  best  of  its  kind.  At  one  time  too 
there  was  Buster,  a  Chesterfieldian  Maltese,  but  he  is 
another  story  and  a  startling  one,  since  he  committed 
suicide  from  jealousy. 

Here,  during  certain  days  in  August,  the  air  is  al- 
ways golden,  the  sun  always  sinks  to  rest  like  a  great 
red  ball,  the  breath  of  the  sea  is  always  soft  and  cool, 
the  tide  at  the  appointed  time  is  coming  in  remorse- 
lessly. 

"  I  know  that  there  the  tide  is  coming  in, 
Secret  and  slow,  for  in  my  heart  I  feel 

The  silent  swelling  of  a  stress  akin ; 
And  in  my  vision,  lo !  blue  glimpses  steal 

Across  the  yellow  marsh-grass,  where  the  flood, 
Filling  the  empty  channels,  lifts  the  keel 

Of  one  lone  cat-boat  bedded  in  the  mud." 

More  motor-boats  than  cat-boats  now,  more  cars 
than  carriages ;  yet  the  dream,  the  longing,  is  the  same 
—  as  the  magic  drink  transforms  the  ten  punts  into 
twenty,  the  prosaic  steamer  plying  up  stream  into  Cleo- 
patra's barge,  and  the  firm  tread  of  the  young  land- 
lord into  the  eager  steps  of  the  hero  who  comes  no 
more.  Oh,  that  wondrous  youth  which  for  two  dimes 
could  be  evoked  any  time  —  that  is,  if  your  past  had 
been  without  surfeit! 

Xo  noisy  shore  resort,  swept  by  rough  ocean  winds, 
can  compare  to  the  mellow  tone  of  these  marshes,  which 
is  like  the  Hoffman  Barcarolle.  Then,  the  fritters  are 
less  the  food  of  men  than  angels,  so  delicate  they  are, 
with  the  clams  a  flavor  rather  than  a   fact, —  indeed 


The  Dirge  117 

the  apotheosis  of  that  often  culinary  nightmare.  As 
I  turn  from  the  little  feast,  for  we  dine  on  the  veran- 
dah, I  notice  that  the  dry  marsh-grass  below,  as  on 
the  islands  of  Lake  Champlain,  is  as  fine  as  a  woman's 
hair. 

"  Mourn  gently,  tranquil  marshes,  mourn  with  me  ! 

Mourn,   if   acceptance   so  serene   can   mourn ! 
Grieve,  marshes,  though  your  noonday  melody 

Of  color  thrill  through  sorrow  like  a  horn." 

Even  as  I  gaze  the  change  comes.  "  Secret  and 
slow  "  the  tide  is  coming  in ;  and  within  no  time  at 
all,  as  dusk  approaches,  we  are  the  centre  of  a  vast 
lake  —  the  hook,  the  creek,  the  island,  are  one !  Only 
the  inn,  the  highway  and  the  amateur  bridge  connect- 
ing them  are  safe  from  the  flood.  It  is  thrilling,  this 
subtle  transformation  —  brought  about  by  the  south 
wind,  impelling  still  further  the  tide,  always  running 
like  a  millrace.  Talk  of  the  fury  of  fire  or  tornado  — 
for  power  irresistible  what  is  equal  to  water?  It  is 
as  sure,  as  stealthy,  as  inevitable,  as  Death. 

"  Stretch  wide,  O  marshes,  in  your  yellow  joy  ! 

Stretch  ample,  marshes,   in  serene  delight ! 
Proclaiming  faith   past  tempests  to  destroy, 

With  silent  confidence  of  conscious  might." 

With  all  his  joy  in  life,  Hovey  was  deeply  religious; 
not  in  the  conventional  sense,  but  in  that  profound  un- 
derstanding which  must  have  supported  him  when  his 
hour  came,  far  too  suddenly  and  too  soon,  to  drink  the 
bitter  cup  —  to  cross  that  dark  river  which  summarily 


118  Within  My  Horizon 

separated  him  from  the  still  greater  work  he  hoped 
to  do. 

Never  did  we  seem  more  in  the  embrace  of  the  ocean 
than  one  evening  in  the  safe  harbor  of  Hook  Creek. 
An  atmosphere  prevailed  that  created  all  the  illusion  of 
a  liner  cutting  through  the  fog  —  only  we  were  sta- 
tionary while  the  fog  was  moving;  not  only  moving 
but  caressing  and  alive.  Oh,  the  intense  masculinity 
of  that  saline  air;  the  sharp  kiss,  the  imperious  clutch, 
the  tender  response  of  soft  cheek  and  curling  hair! 
The  outside  world  was  eliminated ;  we  were  in  an  ele- 
ment neither  of  land  nor  of  sea ;  it  was  if  we  were  alone 
on  this  planet  in  all  comfort  and  content  —  and  oh,  it 
was  beautiful ! 

Those  who  are  forever  on  the  go,  who  feel  that  day 
lost  which  brings  them  no  new  task,  no  differing  sen- 
sation, no  exciting  outlook  or  piquant  guest,  do  not 
know  the  meaning  of  such  an  hour;  but  I  can  give  in- 
disputable evidence  that  beside  its  sweet  intimacy  and 
seclusion,  the  open  day  seems  almost  common,  even  the 
glory  of  the  sunlight  a  bit  loud  and  bold  —  and  all 
the  time  I  thought  of  the  friend  who  is  ever  with  us 
in  the  salt  marshland,  the  friend  who  can  be  with  us 
no  more. 

"Alas,  he  is  not  here,  he  will  not  sing; 

The  air  is  empty  of  him  evermore. 
Alone  I  watch  the  slow  kelp-gatherers  bring 

Their  dories  full  of  sea-moss  to  the  shore. 
No  gentle  eyes  look  out  to  sea  with  mine, 

Xo  gentle  lips  are  uttering  quaint  lore, 
No  hand  is  on  mv  shoulder  for  a  sign." 


XVII 

A    WORD    ABOUT    TRAVEL 

Soon  after  marriage,  which  desirable  condition  my 
husband  explained  to  me  should  be  one  of  perfect  free- 
dom, the  friend  rather  than  the  foe  of  individuality, 
I  began  to  travel.  Being  more  or  less  primitive,  my 
own  idea  had  been  an  exclusive  diet  of  home  and  hold- 
ing hands,  somewhat  mitigated  by  excursions  to  the 
theatre  —  always  together.  These  visions,  hardly 
necessary  to  say,  were  rudely  dispelled ;  since  John  was 
not  only  the  father  of  an  almost  grown  son,  and  a  man 
of  affairs  constantly  increasing  in  importance,  but  as 
to  the  stage  he  was  impatient  as  well  as  blase.  "  Pay 
to  be  amused!  "  he  used  to  exclaim,  with  a  fine  scorn. 
"Not  on  your  life!"  So  I  took  my  mother,  never 
loath  to  go,  until  she  too  sickened  of  the  theatre's  ever- 
growing inanity,  and  we  quit,  after  spending,  as  John 
said,  enough  money  to  found  a  hospital. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  mere  pleasure,  there  was 
no  reason  on  earth  why  I  should  at  tin's  time  have  be- 
gun to  wander  far  afield,  since  everything  of  material 
comfort  and  physical  beauty  was  contained  within  my 
own  America  —  almost  my  own  Brooklyn.  I  know 
this  borough  always  has  mercilessly  been  ridiculed  by 
Manhattan,  its  highest  praise  from  those  supercilious 
lips  being  "  a  good  place  to  sleep  in,"  yet  it  possessed 

in   full  measure  the  one  thing   Xew   York   proper  so 

119 


120  Within  My  Horizon 

conspicuously  lacks  —  the  spirit  of  home.  In  fact 
Manhattan  does  not  belong  to  itself  at  all ;  it  is  the 
haunt  and  joy  of  strangers;  while  Brooklyn  for  many, 
many  years  had  a  distinct  life  of  its  own  —  the  life 
of  those  who  value  families  above  visitors,  residences 
more  than  apartments.  I  well  remember  my  first  bid 
to  a  dinner  at  the  Hamilton  Club,  when  that  place  was 
a  thing  of  atmosphere  and  distinction,  on  a  warm  June 
day.  As  I  walked  along  West  38th  Street,  all  in  white 
from  pumps  to  plumes,  the  gamins  cried  out :  "  Oh, 
don't  I  feel  proud !  "  yet  when  I  crossed  the  Bridge, 
into  the  charming  region  of  the  Heights,  others  too 
sauntered  by  in  white  and  nobody  stared  or  spoke. 

Covering  a  large,  roomy,  moderately  priced  area, 
this  huge  yet  hidden  metropolis  borders  perilously  on 
the  ugly  or  commonplace  were  it  not  for  its  many 
parks  and  neighborhood  communities,  refreshing  oases 
in  the  vast  desert  of  utility,  and  its  proximity  to  the  sea. 
First  Place  and  Second  Place,  near  Hamilton  Ferry, 
with  their  massive  white  and  brownstone  faqades, 
twenty  years  ago  were  exclusive  sections,  possessed  of 
maples  and  elms  that  any  city  in  the  world  might  envy. 
Now  these  great  trees,  like  our  own  block  or  two  in 
Carlton,  are  dead  or  dying,  perhaps  killed  by  the  as- 
phalt pavements,  while  Italians  have  crowded  into  the 
choice  mansions  of  that  earlier  South  Brooklyn  settle- 
ment, and  lodging-houses  flourish  everywhere.  Only 
the  Heights,  despite  changes  through  business,  removal 
to  Manhattan  or  death,  fights  bravely  on  for  the  re- 
tention of  something  like  its  old  character  and  elegance. 
Again  Harrison  Rhodes,  in  that  same  article,  "  Loiter- 
ings  on  Long  Island,"  writes : 


A  Word  About  Travel  121 

Much,  however,  lies  between  Manhattan  and  its  play- 
grounds—  a  great  unknown  city.  Brooklyn  is  not  just  the 
suburb  that  delays  you  on  your  motor  way  to  Coney  Island ; 
it  is  the  Long  Island  metropolis,  a  town  of  some  individuality 
and  pride.  It  possesses  the  Heights,  an  elevated  plateau  fac- 
ing nobly  upon  the  great  harbor,  what  should  be,  if  logic  ever 
swayed  anyone  in  his  choice  of  an  address,  the  most  desir- 
able of  residential  metropolitan  districts.  The  view  from 
the  back  windows  of  Columbia  Heights  down  the  bay  and 
across  to  the  fantastic  towering  cliffs  of  lower  Manhattan 
is  really  one  of  the  most  amazing  and  beautiful  in  the  world. 
And  the  quiet,  almost  prim  elegance  of  the  fashionable 
Brooklyn  streets  which  lie  back  from  the  water  view  gives 
you  the  impression  of  a  reticent  unostentatious  exclusiveness 
—  after  all,  how  far  a  cry  is  it  really  to  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Germain  ?  Brooklyn,  which  is  as  little  New  York  as  New 
York  is  Brooklyn,  awaits  its  chronicler  and  historian. 

Few  women  travel  after  marriage,  and  few  young 
women  travel  at  all.  Yet  I  was  both  married  and 
young  when  I  began  to  see  the  world,  and  not  one  mile 
of  these  wanderings  do  I  regret,  either  the  expense  or 
the  fatigue  of  them  —  rather  do  I  consider  them 
among  the  best  investments  I  ever  made.  Still  from 
the  point  of  view  of  pleasure,  they  were  not  at  the 
time  a  screaming  success ;  nor  do  I  believe  they  are 
with  any  sane  human  being.  I  recall  a  charming  Eng- 
lish couple,  noticeably  unaffected,  well-educated  and 
well-bred,  returning  from  a  winter  in  Burmah  for  the 
husband's  health.  It  was  in  a  crowded  first-class  com- 
partment running  through  Italy.  The  husband  asked 
if  we  were  traveling  for  pleasure.  I  looked  at  mother 
and  mother  at  them  and  they  at  each  other.  Then  in 
little  spurts  came  first  smiles,  next  gurgles  and  at  last 
a  veritable  gale  of  laughter  that  shook  the  car. 


122  Within  My  Horizon 

Italy  was  almost  the  grand  tour  to  a  Frenchman 
once  upon  a  time,  and  Taine  in  his  honesty  wrote  this 
from  Rome :  "  I  am  glad  I  came,  because  I  am  learn- 
ing many  things  here,  but  for  true  pleasure,  unqualified 
poetic  enjoyment,  I  found  it  more  readily  when  I  sat 
with  you,  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  turning  over 
the  contents  of  your  old  portfolios." 

That  is  what  an  American  army  officer,  on  my  first 
voyage  across,  trying  to  discourage  me  from  proceed- 
ing farther  than  Paris,  his  own  home  at  the  time, 
called  "  seeing  Italy  without  the  smells." 

People  seemed  to  think  it  queer  that  I  travelled  so 
much.  Some  politely  inquired  if  I  had  trouble  with 
my  husband  —  dear  John,  who  patted  me  on  the  back 
for  so  doing.  Until  years  after,  and  then  only  for 
brief  business  trips,  he  couldn't  go  with  me,  as  we  both 
hoped  he  would  sometime ;  the  continual  and  exacting 
duties  and  demands  of  a  daily  paper  prevented  it; 
but  he  approved  heartily  of  my  contributions  to  the 
Standard  Union,  travel  letters  then  being  much  in 
vogue  with  family  newspapers,  and  about  the  only  kind 
of  writing,  except  book  reviews  and  music  criticisms, 
I  could  do  well. 

If  all  my  stuff  during  those  twenty  active  years  were 
in  the  form  of  volumes,  I  believe  they  would  occupy 
a  long  library  shelf;  I  am  sure  they  would  amount  to 
more  than  a  million  words ;  and  that  they  were  words 
rather  than  literature  does  not  detract  from  the  actual 
physical  labor  of  them.  Why,  Le  Gallienne,  that  mas- 
ter of  sketches  and  style,  used  to  say  that  while  I 
needed  editing,  I  had  a  very  real  literary  gift,  particu- 
larly in  the  epistolary  line;  and  that  I  could  and  did 


A  Word  About  Travel  123 

make  use  of  it  under  the  conditions  of  rapid  travel  was 
to  him  astounding  —  for  he  never  was  able  to  do  one 
thing  when  on  the  move.  To  this  John  replied  that 
he  thought  my  industry  and  persistence  were  com- 
mendable, since  as  yet  the  subscribers  had  not  been 
paid  to  read  the  things ! 

Few  are  the  beauty-spots  of  the  globe  that  have  not 
known  the  impress  of  my  low-heeled  shoe.  Yet  in 
only  one  or  two  ways  was  I  differently  situated  from 
thousands  of  other  women  who  don't  do  what  they 
please.  One  was  in  having  an  independent  income, 
not  so  large,. but  large  enough  to  gratify  legitimate  de- 
sires at  my  growing  time,  and  in  these  latter  days  to 
help  some  young  struggler  to  do  the  same.  Another 
was  that  I  had  no  children ;  my  husband  cared  for  a 
thousand  things  more  than  for  progeny  —  and  life 
gradually  resolves  itself  into  a  succession  of  choices. 
At  that  moment  I  craved  nothing  on  earth  so  much  as 
to  see  the  world,  to  meet  its  most  interesting  people,  to 
be  married  and  still  in  a  sense  be  free.  Nor  do  I  in 
the  least  regret  these  decisions;  or  find  life  growing 
the  less  interesting  that  I  am  growing  old  —  indeed, 
quite  the  contrary.  It  has  been  almost  the  life  that 
Frances  Hodgson  Burnett  declared  her  ideal:  the  life 
of  a  happy  young  widow;  and  yet  my  husband  and  I 
had  a  deep  and  abiding  affection  for  each  other  — 
probably  far  stronger  and  more  sincere  than  if  we 
were  always  talking  about  our  intimate  feelings  and 
demonstrating  them  to  an  embarrassed  audience. 

In  the  days  of  girlhood,  as  a  relief  from  the  rather 
severe  courses  of  reading  peculiar  to  a  cultivated  New 
England  town,  I  was  given  Charlotte  Bronte's  "  Jane 


124  Within  My  Horizon 

Eyre,"  Augusta  Evans'  "  St.  Elmo "  and  Elizabeth 
Marlitt's  "  Gold  Elsie,"  that  romantic  German  story 
which  for  a  time  I  loved  madly.  Of  varying  charm, 
quality  and  nationality,  one  feature  runs  through  them 
all :  a  hero  of  cold  and  dignified  exterior  who  within  is 
a  seething  volcano.  He  haunted  me,  he  became  my 
prince,  and  as  early  as  thirteen  I  began  to  plan  for 
him ;  which  caused  mother  to  hurl  this  at  my  devoted 
head :  "  You  will  slip  up  on  your  tropical  iceberg  — 
you  will  find  him  cold  not  only  outside  but  clear 
through."  I  remember  well  how  this  dread  prophecy 
disturbed  me.  Nevertheless,  it  was  not  fulfilled ;  John, 
so  serious,  reserved  and  dominant,  realized  my  ideal 
fairly  well  —  with  the  volcano  toned  down  to  a  com- 
forting hearth  fire. 

But  to  leave  personalities  and  return  to  travel.  I 
suppose  I  have  journeyed  by  land  and  water  something 
near  200,000  miles.  I  have  been  on  every  continent 
except  Australasia  twice  and  sometimes  thrice.  In 
this  short  life  I  don't  believe  in  going  over  ground  a 
second  time,  but  sometimes  you  cannot  avoid  it. 
Naples  is  one  of  those  pivotal  points.  I  have  been 
there  six  times,  but  only  once  with  longing  and  rapture 
—  the  first.  So  believe  me  when  I  tell  you,  as  a  blunt 
man  told  me,  that  travel,  like  marriage,  is  not  all  it's 
cracked  up  to  be. 

Life  on  the  ocean  wave,  at  twenty  dollars  per  day, 
with  its  monotony,  its  scarcely  appetizing  fare,  its 
eternal  threat  of  seasickness,  is  something  at  which  on 
land  you  would  sneer.  The  very  best  that  can  be  ob- 
tained is  far  from  the  comforts  of  home,  be  the  com- 
forts never  so  limited  and  the  home  never  so  humble. 


A  Word  About  Travel  125 

In  short,  the  pleasures  lie  largely  in  prospect  and 
retrospect.  The  actual  doing  is  a  cross  between  en- 
forced idleness  and  hard  labor.  One  half  of  it  is 
simply  waiting;  waiting  for  trains,  for  boats,  for  con- 
veyances, for  rooms,  for  servants ;  sitting  on  the  edges 
of  things  until  you  can  be  accommodated  —  while  a 
good  bit  more  is  adjusting  yourself  to  unfamiliar 
speech,  customs,  methods.  Fortunately,  the  small 
residue  makes  up  for  all  the  rest,  and  becomes  one  of 
the  greatest  of  your  assets,  which  can  never  go  wrong 
or  be  taken  from  you  and  grows  in  grace  through 
kindly  memory  to  life's  end. 


XVIII 

THE    LAND    OF    THE    SKY 

Outside  New  York  and  Washington  there  are  at 
least  four  impressive  cities  in  North  America,  the  out- 
posts of  its  civilization  at  the  four  points  of  the  com- 
pass, which  every  good  citizen  ought  to  see :  Boston, 
San  Francisco,  New  Orleans  and  Quebec.  Boston  and 
San  Francisco  I  saw  young  enough  to  thrill  to  the 
ride  of  Paul  Revere  and  to  lament  that  the  Golden 
Gate  was  not  really  of  gold.  However,  my  mind  was 
diverted  by  a  summons  to  spend  a  week  with  friends 
on  an  estate  at  Point  Reyes,  once  a  Spanish-owned, 
then  a  New  England-run,  dairy-farm  reaching  down 
to  the  cliffs  by  the  sea,  where  everybody  was  young 
and  the  butter  the  best  in  the  land.  The  pungent  odor 
of  those  moist,  grandly  wooded  pastures  close  to  the 
Pacific  Ocean,  where  sunshine  and  shadow,  as  in 
Italy  and  Japan,  so  sharply  contrast,  while  the  tran- 
scendent vegetation  differs  from  the  tropics  more  in 
keenness  than  luxuriance,  can  never  be  forgotten ;  and 
to  have  it  to  the  accompaniment  of  Chinese  servants, 
a  host  under  thirty  and  his  sister  scarcely  twenty,  who 
wore  a  fascinating  red  silk  kerchief  as  a  breakfast  cap 
over  her  sparkling  black  eyes,  yet  who  could  use  the 
broom  as  well  as  anyone,  though  admitting  there  was 

small     satisfaction    in    sweeping    bare     floors  —  this 

126 


The  Land  of  the  Sky  127 

seemed  to  me  at  that  time  the  most  piquant  experience 
of  my  life. 

Quebec  I  did  not  attain  until  years  after,  and  it  is 
not  ours  anyhow,  but  its  foreign  appearance  and  pic- 
turesque individuality  are  well  worth  looking  up,  for 
it  is  an  easy  glimpse  overseas,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
wonderful  Saguenay  near  by.  Yet  more  than  that, 
more  than  its  triumphant  Chateau  Frontenac,  more 
even  than  its  high,  fort-like  location,  far  above  the 
noble  river  St.  Lawrence,  did  a  simple  stone  monument 
impress  me,  on  which  were  graved  these  few  telling 
lines: 

Here    Died 

WOLFE 

VICTORIOUS 

September  13th 

1759 

The  last  city.  New  Orleans,  is  not  yet  achieved, 
though  I  am  told  by  my  friend  "  La  Belle  Helene," 
otherwise  Mrs.  Christian  Schertz,  one  of  its  first  citi- 
zens, despite  youth  and  a  distinguished  Yankee  ances- 
tor, and  always  its  ardent  custodian  and  servitor,  that 
I  must  sally  forth  before  the  old  French  quarter  and 
various  interesting  Spanish  things  are  no  more.  One 
of  these  is  the  Spanish  Custom  House,  Mrs.  Schertz's 
own  home  since  her  marriage,  which  can  be  seen  in 
the  film  "  The  Light,"  of  Theda  Rara  fame.  Jack- 
son's headquarters,  too,  she  is  working  night  and  day 
to  secure  for  the  generations  to  come.  Helen  of  New 
Orleans  is  a  patriot  who  acts  rather  than  talks. 

Mother  used  to  say  of  our  first  trip  to  Europe,  the 
alwavs   wondrous   "  first  "   of  anything,  that   we  had 


128  Within  My  Horizon 

taken  a  huge  skimmer,  in  our  carefully  laid  plans,  and 
gathered  up  all  the  cream.  So  I  have  sometimes  felt 
about  our  only  visit  to  the  South,  which  extended  but 
a  little  below  the  Mason  and  Dixon  line  yet  embraced 
nearly  all  the  enchanting  Southern  mountains.  It  was 
a  run  through  the  seven  wonders  of  the  South,  so  to 
speak.  The  grandeur  of  the  Pass  over  the  Blue  Ridge, 
twenty  miles  east  of  Biltmore,  was  a  surprise,  the  loops 
and  whirls  in  the  steep  gradient  recalling  the  St.  Goth- 
ard  of  Switzerland  in  a  softened  mood,  the  mood  of 
rich  forests  as  against  sharp  rocks,  and  forestalling 
similar  engineering  feats  amidst  the  tropic  splendors 
of  India  and  Brazil.  The  second  wonder  was  the 
French  Broad  River,  with  its  blessed  sing-song  over 
the  pebbly  shallows,  as  provocative  of  dreams  as  Lake 
Champlain's  singing  sands,  all  the  way  from  Kenil- 
worth  Inn  at  Biltmore  to  that  cup  in  the  hills  called 
Hot  Springs,  where  the  Mountain  Park  Hotel  opened 
wide  its  hospitable  doors.  After  an  ideal  siesta,  re- 
luctantly we  departed  for  Cumberland  Gap,  three 
States  meeting  there  to  no  purpose  after  the  lavish  ex- 
penditure of  English  millions  on  a  great,  magnificent, 
abandoned  stone  hotel.  That  day  we  were  eleven 
hours  covering  a  distance  of  less  than  a  hundred  miles, 
but  finally  arrived  at  the  Four  Seasons  in  its  bril- 
liant evening  dress.  Driving  up  to  the  grand  entrance 
by  a  winding  way,  we  faced  a  colonnade  blazing  with 
electric  lights,  and  mounting  the  spacious  stone  steps 
entered  a  lofty  hall  where  a  full  orchestra  triumphantly 
announced  our  arrival !  It  was  the  strangest  scene  I 
ever  had  formed  part  of :  a  superb  establishment  in  full 
working  trim,  a  line  of  lackeys  eagerly  awaiting  orders, 


The  Land  of  the  Sky  129 

a  host  who  had  come  from  the  Grand  Union  at  Sara- 
toga to  do  the  honors,  and  all  for  two  weary,  travel- 
stained  women  who  longed  only  for  bed,  and  some 
fifteen  other  guests  in  a  place  built  to  accommodate 
five  hundred.  Nothing  could  seem  more  melancholy 
than  this  splendid  pile  in  the  midst  of  bare  fields  and 
on  the  eve  of  collapse.  There  was  no  reason  on  earth 
why  a  hotel  should  be  built  there  at  all  —  a  retreat 
without  beauty  and  reached  only  by  the  roughest  of 
railroads;  but  the  promoters  would  have  it  so,  in  a  time 
of  wild  land  speculation,  when  the  whole  Shenandoah 
Valley  from  Hagerstown  to  Roanoke,  with  scarcely  a 
habitation  for  240  miles  and  the  country  often  six 
inches  under  water,  was  pictured  to  the  "  easy  "  as 
almost  one  solid  metropolis  —  a  chain  of  dream  cities 
that  never  saw  the  light. 

The  triangle  enclosing  the  towns  of  Paris,  Lexing- 
ton and  Winchester  is  the  heart  of  the  Blue  Grass 
region  of  Kentucky.  In  the  spring  and  early  summer, 
with  the  feathery  tops  in  bloom,  this  blue-green  grass 
must  be  a  pleasant  sight.  It  is  not,  however,  peculiar 
to  Kentucky,  being  found  as  far  east  as  Virginia  and 
in  Ohio,  but  Kentucky  seems  to  monopolize  the  fame 
of  it.  On  that  dull  autumn  day  there  was  no  beauty 
to  it ;  not  more  than  to  the  tall,  rawboned  women  I 
met,  when  looking  for  the  pink  of  femininity  —  yet 
here  as  everywhere  in  the  South  the  people  were  kind. 
It  was  a  warm-hearted  ticket-agent  at  Lexington,  tak- 
ing pity  on  our  homeless  condition,  dropped  from  the 
train  there  at  an  awkward  moment,  when  the  October 
races  precluded  shelter,  who  suggested  the  quiet  little 
inn    at    Winchester — twenty    miles    away.      Here    I 


130  Within  My  Horizon 

found  the  famous  beaten  biscuit,  a  hard  pastry  rather 
than  biscuit  either  in  the  New  England  or  Old  England 
sense  of  the  word.  The  Winchester  landlord  was  so 
pleased  at  our  interest  in  everything,  his  quaint  furni- 
ture not  less  than  the  restful  atmosphere  and  revivify- 
ing food,  that  we  were  sorry  to  leave.  May  that 
Southern  chivalry  never  die ! 

Cross-country  fare  one  ought  not  to  mind  anyhow, 
but  at  such  a  place  as  White  Sulphur  Springs,  even 
out  of  season,  the  amenities  should  exist.  Beauty  was 
everywhere :  the  New  River  in  its  autumnal  robes 
proved  as  brilliant  as  anything  of  its  kind  in  the  North, 
where  the  magic  of  light  frosts  transforms  into  scarlet 
wonders  the  sugar-maple  trees :  and  while  we  did  not 
care  for  the  caverns  at  Luray,  which  were  to  close  our 
excursion,  nor  could  we  stand  the  wretched  tavern 
that  housed  us  there,  we  lost  our  hearts  completely  to 
Virginia's  Natural  Bridge  in  the  days  just  before. 
The  journey  was  one  long  chain  of  pictorial  gems, 
the  mountains  in  their  soft  shadows  and  imperial  blue 
were  a  full  feast  for  the  eyes,  but  seldom  was  there  a 
feast  for  the  body  —  and  when  I  say  feast  I  mean 
simply  palatable  food.  Afterwards  I  met  a  man  who 
had  solved  the  problem  in  boiled  eggs  and  baked  pota- 
toes, because  as  he  said  nobody  could  get  into  them ! 
but  with  us  everything  seemed  to  be  improperly  fried. 

"  They  don't  feed  you  as  well  at  Asheville  as  in 
some  places,"  one  colored  waiter  said,  "  but  oh,  de 
view  is  the  beautifulest  you  ever  saw.  It  is  dis  way," 
earnestly  arranging  the  table;  "  dese  flowers  is  de  Bat- 
tery Park  Hotel,  perched  above  de  town,  an'  de  big 
mountings  is  all  around  here  outside  de  table,  an'  dat 


The  Land  of  the  Sky  131 

sugar-bowl  is  Beaumont  Ridge,  and  dese  knives  and 
forks  an'  salt-cellars  is  de  ribber  and  Five-Mile  Sul- 
phur an'  all  de  oder  tings."  He  handed  me  my  yam 
with  a  sigh.  "  I  used  to  walk  up  dat  hill  fifty  times  a 
day  to  get  dat  view.  It  was  all  so  pretty,  wid  de 
doplin'  hills  around,  dat  you  could  live  widout  eatin'." 

That  is  precisely  what  happened  to  me,  towards  the 
end  of  our  outing,  in  West  Virginia  —  I  lived  "  wid- 
out eatin'."  Yet  never  did  I  enter  a  place  with  more 
sentiment  than  that  great  hotel.  Celebrated  in  song 
and  story,  resorted  to  by  the  elect  of  the  Southern 
world,  a  stage  on  which  for  generations  noted  beaux 
and  belles  had  played  their  interesting  parts,  White 
Sulphur  Springs  had  stirred  my  Northern  imagination 
to  more  than  Northern  warmth.  It  had  been  my  pride 
on  occasion  to  be  taken  for  a  woman  of  the  South; 
how  I  rejoiced  in  the  dark  of  hair  and  eyes  and  the 
red  of  lips  that  made  the  mistake  possible  —  how 
pleased  I  was  to  be  told  that  my  voice  surely  was  from 
Baltimore!  This  spot  was  the  heart  of  the  rose:  this 
room,  perhaps  this  very  bed,  had  held  the  fairest  flower 
of  Southern  womanhood.  The  smothered  fire  of  dark 
eyes  seemed  to  glow  in  the  gloom,  sweet  perfumes  to 
float  on  the  air;  I  could  picture  the  pageant  passing  be- 
fore me  —  until  I  began  examining  my  surroundings. 
Then,  even  before  next  day's  meals,  goodbye,  illusions, 
goodbye,  forever ! 

Nature  had  done  everything  for  that  country,  man 
almost  nothing.  The  scenery  was  superb,  the  air  an 
elixir,  but  the  days  were  hard  indeed,  until  we  reached 
the  Natural  Bridge,  run  by  a  Boston  syndicate  — ■  when 
as  by  a  magic  wand  all  was  changed.     Though  it  was 


132  Within  My  Horizon 

years  ago,  the  mellow  beauty  of  that  delectable  spot, 
the  solid,  everyday  comfort  of  that  modest  hotel,  is 
still  a  refreshing  memory.  On  our  arrival  in  the  eve- 
ning, how  we  loved  those  long  doorlike  windows  which 
opened  upon  the  verandah  and  made  us  and  our  rooms 
one  with  the  sweet  southern  night!  Fatigue,  head- 
ache, the  blues,  departed  as  precipitately  as  thirsty  men 
who  can  find  no  drink;  and  the  next  morning,  what 
heavenly  solace  in  the  homelike  breakfast-room,  where, 
within  the  great  fireplace,  directly  in  front  of  which 
they  kindly  placed  us,  our  plates  were  warming  before 
the  blazing  logs,  while  the  aroma  of  good  coffee  filled 
the  air  like  a  benediction ! 

All  this  hitherto  unpurchasable  joy  was  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  the  Bridge,  once  owned  by  Thomas 
Jefferson,  who  pronounced  it  "  a  famous  place  that 
will  draw  the  attention  of  the  world,"  and  which  Henry 
Clay  spoke  of  as  "  the  bridge  not  made  by  hands,"  and 
Marshall  as  "  God's  greatest  miracle  in  stone." 
George  Washington,  while  a  surveyor  in  1759  for  Lord 
Fairfax,  mentioned  it  and  cut  his  name  on  the  stone, 
where  I  found  it.  The  marks  are  already  half  ob- 
literated but  the  eloquent  walls  still  stand. 

The  wonder  of  the  place  should  be  felt  more  widely 
than  it  is.  One  unappreciative  observer  declared  the 
thing  was  not  worth  looking  at,  while  another,  im- 
pressed only  by  size,  calculated  that  the  walls  of  the 
Yosemite  were  twenty  times  higher  —  when  the  Yo- 
semite  is  not  a  bridge  but  a  valley.  The  Natural 
Bridge  is  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high,  tremendous 
for  any  kind  of  a  suspension,  but  marvelous  in  a  work 
of  nature  on  the  earth's  floor;  and  in  the  soft  sunlight 


The  Land  of  the  Sky  133 

of  that  early  morning,  which  changed  dew  into  jewels 
throughout  the  fairy  glen,  the  great  gray  arch  spanning 
a  mountain  stream  seemed  sublime.  For  from  it  spoke 
the  voice  of  eternity  —  the  wisdom  of  the  ages. 


XIX 

PEAKS    OF   TRAVEL 

All  travel  is  desirable,  whether  pleasant  or  ugly,  be- 
cause all  is  knowledge ;  yet  there  are  salient  points  in 
each  land,  like  snowcaps  among  mountains,  standing 
out  alone,  silvery,  half  divine,  which  haunt  me  after 
many  years,  when  much  of  greater  worldly  import  has 
faded,  and  which  I  hope  may  a  little  stir  you : 

Nikko,  Japan 

Mountain-girt  Nikko  is  memorable  to  me  as  one  of 
the  few  spots  that  surpassed  my  expectations  —  always 
too  extravagant.  It  is  not  the  mountains,  though  they 
are  superb ;  neither  is  it  the  unique  temples  and  tombs : 
it  is  the  strange  commingling  of  rare  and  wonderful 
things.  Miss  Scidmore  expresses  it  perfectly  when 
she  writes:  "With  its  forest  shades,  its  vast  groves 
and  lofty  avenues;  its  hush,  its  calm,  religious  air, 
Nikko  is  an  ideal  and  dreamlike  place,  where  rulers 
and  prelates  may  long  be  buried,  and  where  priests, 
poets,  scholars,  artists  and  pilgrims  love  to  abide." 

From  my  room  at  the  hotel  on  the  Sunday  morning 
after  arrival,  I  heard  the  deep  tones  of  the  great  bell 
which,  struck  by  a  priest,  informs  Nikko  of  the  pass- 
ing hours.  Our  orthodox  old  widow  would  not  hear 
of   the   Sabbath  desecrated  by  anything  savoring  of 

134 


Peaks  of  Travel  135 

sight-seeing,  yet  what  better  way  to  pass  the  Lord's 
Day  than  by  wandering  in  wondrous  temple  grounds 
freighted  with  the  reverence  of  millions  since  the  be- 
ginning of  civilized  time?  No  one  could  behold  those 
sacred  groves  on  any  day  or  hour  without  longing  to 
emulate  the  honored  beings  sleeping  there  —  which  is 
about  all  there  is  to  any  religion,  Christian  or  Pagan, 
don't  you  think? 

Moss-covered  stone  steps  endlessly  mounting 
through  the  thick  shade  of  cedars  as  tall  as  church 
spires,  own  cousins  to  the  noble  sequoias  of  California, 
led  to  the  tomb  of  Ieyasu,  who  three  or  four  centuries 
ago  lived  so  wisely  and  so  well  that  his  mausoleum 
has  been  a  Mecca  for  true  believers  ever  since.  At 
the  base  of  those  steps  a  Buddhist  service  was  going  on 
in  a  small  wooden  temple,  elaborately  carved  outside 
but  severely  simple  within,  where  on  the  floor,  in  true 
Oriental  fashion,  were  seated  the  various  priests,  a 
high  priest  leading  and  standing,  and  all  chanting 
rapturously  in  a  deep  monotone.  The  incense,  the 
lighted  candles,  the  continual  murmur  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  the  low  note  of  a  horn,  not  unlike  the  in- 
sistent bass  pedal  of  a  great  church  organ,  suggested 
the  Roman  Catholic  mass,  to  which  the  creed  of 
Buddhism  is  not  a  little  akin. 

Tn  an  open  pavilion  adjoining  the  temple,  a  woman 
was  giving  the  religious  Kagura  dance.  She  had  a 
face  in  skin  texture  like  a  Creole's,  so  smooth,  creamy 
and  sun-touched,  with  eyes  that  spoke  of  an  unknown 
world.  To  slow  rhythm  she  began  a  new  phase,  a  fan 
in  one  hand,  a  wand  of  bells  in  the  other,  touching 
each  now  and  then  to  her  forehead,  where  the  fingers 


136  Within  My  Horizon 

often  met;  then  bent,  turned,  crouched,  with  a  dignity 
in  keeping  with  the  solemn  ceremony,  yet  dreamy,  sen- 
suous and  remote  —  a  whole  world  of  allurement  in 
her  veiled  eyes.  It  was  the  first  woman's  face  I  had 
seen  in  Japan  that  hinted  of  anything  beyond  the  con- 
crete. I  wondered  what  she  did  in  her  off  moments ; 
if  she  ever  mingled  with  her  kind;  if  she  knew  what 
it  was  to  love  and  be  loved;  and  after  her  dances  to  eat, 
laugh  and  sleep.  Hardly,  with  those  eyes ;  yet,  as  a 
friend,  a  keen  woman  no  longer  living,  used  to  say, 
when  we  discussed  impassioned  creatures,  I  dwelling 
insistently  on  the  power  of  eyes :  "  It's  not  eyes  that 
do  it  but  nerves." 

The  Buddha  at  Kamakura 

Under  God's  own  skies,  defying  wind  and  weather, 
in  a  little  park  of  its  own,  fifty  feet  high  and  ninety-six 
in  circumference,  resting  on  a  pedestal  six  feet  from 
the  ground,  the  great  bronze  Buddha  of  Kamakura 
is  the  most  impressive  thing  of  its  kind  in  the  world. 
"  It  is  Buddha  in  Nirvana,"  said  Raphael  Pumpelly, 
one  of  its  first  foreign  visitors,  " —  the  successful  ren- 
dering of  a  profound  religious  abstraction.  It  is  the 
essence  of  the  promise  given  by  Sakyamuni  to  his  fol- 
lowers, a  promise  which  has  been,  during  more  than 
twenty  centuries,  the  guiding  hope  of  countless  mil- 
lions of  souls." 

From  a  little  distance  along  the  winding  path,  as 
the  image  reposes  among  the  trees  against  the  vivid 
green  of  the  small  hill,  it  is  inspiring  in  truth  and  in 
suggestion  ;  but  a  nearer  approach  coarsens  the  features 
—  is  this  an  illusion  or  is  it  a  sign? 


Peaks  of  Travel  137 

Sunrise  at  Darjeeling,  India 

Everybody  was  awake  at  an  early  hour  to  be  borne 
in  chairs  on  the  backs  of  men  to  Tiger  Hill,  with  its 
fleeting  glimpse  of  Everest,  the  highest  peak  in  the 
world ;  but  I  was  loath  to  see  anything  collectively 
when  my  own  verandah  offered  almost  as  much  — 
really  more  from  the  panoramic  point  of  view,  since 
at  Darjeeling's  best  hotel,  the  Woodlands,  you  look 
both  up  and  down.  Sunrise  in  the  mountains  is  al- 
ways an  event,  peak  after  peak  lighting  up  as  if  touched 
by  a  gigantic  torch,  until  the  foothills  and  the  valleys 
respond,  and  all  stands  revealed  —  when  the  poetry 
and  the  wonder  vanish,  and  it  becomes  merely  a  view. 
This  you  know ;  but  when  those  white  summits  are 
the  Himalayas,  monarchs  of  the  globe,  it  seems  a  spe- 
cial privilege;  and  seen  as  I  saw  it,  quite  alone,  only  a 
dark  servant  or  two  noiselessly  creeping  by,  wonder- 
ing at  the  still,  lonely  figure,  count  that  day  blessed ! 

It  was  at  Darjeeling  that  I  met  George  K.  Vander- 
bilt  and  William  Bradhurst  Osgood  Field,  the  former 
in  flannel  shirts  at  all  meals.  Mr.  Field  was  handsome, 
in  a  fine,  manly,  American  way,  very  observant  and 
interesting,  and  inclined  to  compare  railroads  and 
things  in  India  to  America's  advantage.  But  more 
than  his  opinions  did  1  care  for  his  sunny  manner  and 
magnetic  eye  —  surely  there  are  no  men  like  our  men. 

The  Taj   Mahal 

The  masterful  Himalayas  were  followed  by  a  quiet, 
restful,  exquisite  time  at  Agra.  For  years  I  had 
longed  for  the  Taj  — longed  for  it  not  only  as  a  thing 


138  Within  My  Horizon 

of  supreme  artistic  loveliness,  but  because  it  was  the 
memorial  of  a  great  man  to  a  tender  woman,  and  that 
woman  his  own  wife;  and  strange  to  say,  in  a  land 
of  lax  morals  and  abundant  females,  the  one  woman  on 
earth  to  him.  The  strangest  of  all  is  that  Mumtez-i- 
Mahal  was  no  longer  a  young  woman,  as  Indian 
women  go,  when  she  died  and  rent  the  heart  of  Shah 
Jehan ;  she  was  no  bride,  with  the  glamour  of  early 
marriage  about  her  and  her  destiny  unfulfilled;  on  the 
contrary,  she  had  borne  her  lord  seven  children  and 
died  in  giving  birth  to  the  eighth.  Yet  so  unceasingly 
did  he  mourn  his  loss  that  he  not  only  spent  seventeen 
years  and  endless  rupees  in  erecting  this  white  wonder 
to  her  memory,  but  passed  his  own  dying  hours  in  a 
room  of  his  palace  across  the  river  where  he  could 
continually  rest  his  eyes  on  the  shrine  that  held  her 
loved  remains. 

It  was  perhaps  as  well  that  the  economy  of  his  son 
prevented  the  completion  of  Jehan's  own  tomb,  the 
black  mate  to  his  lady's  white  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  Jumna;  for  thereby  he  now  lies  beside  her,  a  bit 
to  the  right  of  her  grand  central  monument,  marring 
the  symmetry  slightly,  but  ministering  to  that  very 
human  instinct  to  be  near  the  beloved  even  in  death. 
Here,  in  the  mellow  light  of  the  hot  Indian  sun,  tem- 
pered by  the  fretted  stone  through  which  it  strikes  the 
royal  pair,  sheltered  by  a  high  screen  of  wrought  mar- 
ble and  beneath  the  glories  of  carved  and  jeweled  walls, 
rest  these  two  who  loved  each  other  well.  Outside, 
in  a  lofty  niche,  the  bees  make  honey  from  the  flowers 
in  the  garden,  honey  which  in  due  time  is  eaten  by  men, 
and  which  should  be  the  very  sweetest  on  earth  spring- 


Peaks  of  Travel  139 

ing  from  such  a  soil  —  the  blooms  from  an  immortal 
passion. 

Yes,  I  had  dreamed  of  the  Taj,  and  now  I  was  to 
see  it,  not  by  the  pitiless  light  of  day,  but  by  that  of 
the  moon  in  its  last  quarter.  In  the  dimness,  through 
the  small  door  of  the  great  sandstone  entrance,  we 
were  admitted  reverently.  Slowly,  step  by  step,  all 
alone,  Abdul  far  ahead,  I  approached,  pausing  by  the 
way,  to  take  in  the  more  surely  those  incomparable  out- 
lines, crowned  by  that  marvelous  dome,  pure  white 
against  the  splendid  Indian  night.  Over  the  garden 
hung  a  profound  silence;  not  a  sound  could  be  heard 
save  my  own  footfalls  and  the  occasional  flop  of  a  fish 
in  the  long,  cypress-bordered  pools  —  there  was  no 
light  beyond  that  of  the  waning  moon  and  the  oil  lamp 
which  burns  all  night  within  the  tomb  beside  the  sleep- 
ing guard. 

As  I  stopped,  breathless,  before  that  symbol  of  all 
beauty,  all  mystery,  heaven  in  love,  Love  in  Heaven, 
there  came  a  change.  The  crows  began  to  caw,  the 
birds  to  nestle  and  call,  the  pale  moon  to  grow  paler 
still,  and  at  last  a  radiance  out  of  the  east  —  it  was  the 
dawn!  Little  by  little  that  adorable  bubble  of  beauty 
came  out  of  its  delicate  veil,  revealed  bit  by  bit  the 
great  arches,  carved  screens  and  precious  stones,  until 
all  was  suffused  with  the  color  of  rose,  the  first  blush 
of  the  young  day.  I  saw  it  then  as  Sir  Edwin  Arnold 
saw  it : 

Matchless,  perfect  in   form,  a  miracle 
Of  grace,  and  tenderness,  and  symmetry, 
Pearl  pure  against  the  sapphire  of  the  sky. 


140  Within  My  Horizon 

White  as  the  cheek  of  Mumtez-i-Mahal 
When  Shah  Jehan  let  fall  a  king's  tear  there. 
White  as  the  breast  her  new  babe  vainly  pressed 
That  ill  day  in  the  camp  at  Burhampur. 

Not  architecture !   as  all  others  are, 

But  the  proud  passion  of  an  Emperor's  love 

Wrought  into  living  stone  which  gleams  and  soars. 

Praising  the  name  of  Allah,  and  her  name, 
And  when  she  lived  and  died  —  of  all  that  time 
The  glory,  and  the  cynosure,  and  pearl. 

Cairo 

While  Cairo  is  a  water-color  as  compared  to  the  gor- 
geous oil-paintings  of  India,  Ceylon,  Java,  Rio,  Bur- 
mah,  it  well  stands  repetition.  One  always  is  willing 
to  go  there  again.  Yet  I  think  it  is  three  times  and 
out  with  me,  for  I  have  lost  my  dragoman  and  my 
hotel.  Achmed  no  longer  is  in  the  business,  and  the 
Hotel  du  Xil,  the  most  fascinating  in  the  world  to  me, 
just  off  the  Mouski  in  the  native  quarter,  has  been 
pulled  down. 

Never,  never  shall  I  forget  my  first  visit  to  an  inn 
and  a  land  as  beautiful  as  a  dream  and  as  old  as  the 
world  —  at  least  the  land  is  as  old  as  that  and  both 
were  as  beautiful  as  a  dream.  Now  the  hotel,  perforce, 
is  but  a  dream.  Why  should  a  thing  of  perfect  beauty 
inspire  people  with  a  passion,  a  veritable  passion,  to 
destroy?  I  have  to  fight  the  neighbors  for  my  trees, 
in  a  city  ugly  with  the  lack  of  them,  and  now  I  mourn 
my  one  beloved  hotel.  The  days  in  that  enchanting 
spot  seemed  totally  different  from  any  travel  days  I 
had  ever  known.     It  was  drifting,   floating,   through 


Peaks  of  Travel  141 

the  golden  hours  :  waking  to  the  songs  of  strange  birds ; 
to  the  perfume  of  strange  flowers;  to  unique  coffee, 
bread  and  sweets ;  to  dark  servants  in  picturesque  at- 
tire, for  whom  you  clapped  your  hands,  and  who 
obeyed  your  orders  silently.  It  was  like  no  hotel  on 
earth,  more  a  palace  than  a  public  house,  with  its 
court  and  its  antiquities,  its  mummy-cases,  banyan- 
trees,  kiosks,  its  garden  of  sub-tropical  flowers  and 
foliage. 

Then  the  novel  sights  in  the  streets,  with  their  babel 
of  peculiar  cries.  If  your  fancy  was  to  drive  to  the 
pyramids  in  the  early  morning,  you  would  meet  the 
refreshing  spectacle  of  a  string  of  camels  laden  with 
dew-sprinkled  alfalfa;  at  noon  you  could  rest  on  your 
own  terrace  or  in  the  dimly  lighted  bazaars;  and  the 
day  might  be  wound  up  by  a  visit  to  the  citadel,  and 
that  mosque  close  by  like  unto  a  poem,  where  stone 
becomes  alabaster  and  the  floor  an  exhibition  of  price- 
less rugs — -and  all  in  the  name  of  Mohamet  AH. 
Then  a  yellow  sunset,  with  pink  flushes,  and  the  priests 
in  the  minarets  calling  to  the  faithful,  with  a  cadence 
that  is  a  prayer.  Last,  the  long  bamboo  chair  on  the 
stone  terrace  at  home,  munching  Turkish  Delight,  and 
looking  up,  up,  into  a  blaze  of  stars  such  as  you  never 
had  conceived  —  a  heaven  that  you  will  not  forget  as 
long  as  you  live,  not  only  because  it  is  divine,  but  be- 
cause it  has  looked  down  on  Cleopatra  as  well  as  you 
and  has  known  the  glory  of  Egypt  in  her  prime. 

This  on  my  first  visit,  but  the  next,  while  nothing 
was  changed,  everything  was  changed.  I  recognized 
my  old  room,  though  years  had  passed  :  1  still  found 
water  in  the  ancient  jar;  the  wooden  grill  as  of  yore 


142  Within  My  Horizon 

tempered  the  light  of  my  windows ;  the  broad  stone 
terrace  on  a  level  with  my  floor,  reached  by  broad  stone 
steps  from  the  garden,  was  as  fascinating  for  prome- 
nades and  siestas  as  before;  and  the  same  red-fezzed, 
white-robed  Arab  served  the  same  thimbleful  of  thick 
coffee  when  I  called  for  it. 

It  was  the  same  and  yet  not  the  same  —  until  I  met 
Achmed,  my  old  dragoman,  who  had  made  himself  so 
necessary  to  me  by  his  quick  anticipation  of  my  every 
mood.  If  I  cared  to  be  energetic,  he  helped  me  to 
activity;  if  I  preferred  to  lag  and  rest  and  dream, 
nobody  could  play  that  role  better  than  he  —  indeed  it 
takes  an  Oriental  to  respond  intelligently  to  your  desire 
to  let  the  hours  drift  by  like  clouds  upon  the  sky. 
So  you  can  imagine  my  delight  when  in  a  boggle  over 
fine  perfumes,  my  makeshift  guide  proving  wholly  in- 
efficient, I  looked  up  suddenly  into  the  sympathetic  eyes 
of  Achmed  —  Achmed,  who,  I  had  been  told,  was  up 
the  Nile! 

At  once  we  made  for  the  old  bazaars ;  he  took  me  to 
the  same  shop  where  I  had  bought  before,  kept  by  him 
of  the  refined  features,  courteous  manners  and  mid- 
night eyes,  who  sells  essences  because  he  loves  them 
and  gives  none  but  the  best  —  Mahmoud  El-Mawardi ; 
and  wasn't  I  glad  to  see  him,  and  didn't  we  have  a 
lovely  time,  waiting  for  the  long,  slender  bottles  to 
be  shaken,  filled  and  waxed,  talking  and  laughing  like 
happy  children !  The  homesickness,  the  harsh  March 
wind,  the  uncongenial  "  party  "  were  forgotten  —  for 
I  had  found  a  friend,  two  of  them,  and  the  warmth  of 
home  was  almost  at  hand.  Cairo  in  its  sudden  caprice 
of  climate  no  longer  played  me  a  mean  trick,  and  oh, 


Peaks  of  Travel  143 

the  joy  of  getting  away  from  the  Widow,  the  Doctor 
and  the  Financier! 

The  merchant  sat  cross-legged  on  the  floor  of  his 
little  shop  surrounded  by  shelf  after  shelf  of  the  sweet- 
est wares-  (among  which  was  that  congealed  attar  of 
rose,  looking  something  like  camphor,  melting  with 
the  warmth  of  the  hand,  a  small  bit  costing  an  English 
pound),  while  we  crouched  on  the  steps  at  his  feet. 
When  he  held  the  bottles  high  between  his  eyes  and  the 
light,  that  he  might  persuade  the  amber,  attar,  violet  or 
sandal-wood  through  the  needle-like  aperture  without 
waste,  his  silk  sleeve  fell  back  and  displayed  the  shapely 
hand  of  the  well-to-do  Egyptian,  with  its  handsome, 
henna-stained  nails.  At  the  end  cigarettes  were  prof- 
fered from  an  ample  supply,  and  the  dark  Eastern 
coffee  in  doll's  cups,  with  the  favorite  gum  of  amber, 
and  we  sipped  and  smoked  with  joy.  It  was  like  the 
good  old  times,  when  the  skies  were  blue,  the  air  full 
of  balm,  nobody  in  a  hurry  and  life  well  worth  living. 
Achmed  remembered  everything ;  what  I  paid  years 
before  for  my  various  souvenirs;  the  night  we  went  by 
moonlight  to  the  pyramids ;  my  ride  on  a  camel  out  into 
the  desert ;  our  evening  with  the  whirling  and  dancing 
dervishes;  the  number  of  my  room  at  the  hotel.  In- 
deed I  might  have  been  there  yet  had  not  luncheon 
called ;  and  could  it  have  been  my  imagination  that 
when  we  came  out  the  skies  seemed  bluer  and  the  air 
more  genial  ? 

The  third  and  last  trip  to  Egypt  included  Memphis, 
with  a  thrilling  race  on  a  donkey  for  the  train;  Luxor 
and  Assouan,  also  Philae,  to  say  nothing  of  a  bit  of 
John  —  but  that,  too,  is  another  story. 


144  Within  My  Horizon 


Granada 

Calve's  dance  around  Don  Jose  in  "  Carmen,"  where 
she  used  her  arms  and  fingers  so  eloquently,  was  once 
explained  to  me  as  the  result  of  a  physical  disability 
preventing  much  movement  below  the  waist ;  but  the 
little  gypsy  across  the  River  Darro  from  the  Alhambra 
danced  precisely  the  same  —  a  young  nomad  running 
along  the  road  with  a  yellow  shawl  flung  over  her,  a 
bit  of  feathery  dried  grass  in  her  hand,  and  a  flower  in 
her  hair.  She  danced  right  there  in  the  highway,  to 
the  music  of  women  and  children  singing  and  clapping 
hands,  her  eyes  suffused  with  languor,  her  arms  and 
fingers  describing  graceful  curves,  her  yellow  slippers, 
oblivious  of  refuse,  twinkling  in  the  dirt.  She  danced 
exceedingly  well,  quite  yielding  herself  to  the  abandon 
of  her  own  performance,  at  times  joining  in  the  accom- 
panying refrain ;  but  the  minute  the  figure  was  finished, 
the  languor  in  her  eyes  changed  to  pure  greed,  the 
hand  was  extended  for  the  peseta  before  it  could  pos- 
sibly be  offered,  and  the  siren  became  the  huckster. 
Spain  is  a  land  of  violent  contrasts;  there  exists  no 
wholesome  mean  between  the  nobility,  spending  its 
rentes  at  Madrid  or  abroad,  and  the  poor  who  are  near 
brothers  to  the  beggars  —  so  heartily  is  work  in  this 
proud  kingdom  by  all  despised.  Do  you  realize  that 
Great  Britain's  vain  boast,  "  The  Empire  on  which  the 
sun  never  sets,"  was  cribbed  from  ancient  Hispania? 
England  should  beware !  Who  is  now  so  poor  as  to 
do  Spain  reverence?  Yet  always  in  the  report  to  the 
King   every  evening  are  these    few   ominous   words : 


Peaks  of  Travel  145 

"  Gibraltar  still  remains   in  temporary  possession  of 
England." 

Modern  Spain  has  dignity  but  little  originality. 
Her  architecture,  her  dance  even,  is  a  heritage  from 
the  Moor;  the  operas  most  typical  of  her  life  and  tem- 
perament are  by  two  Frenchmen, —  but  she  is  herself 
in  the  fan,  the  mantilla  and  her  defmement  of  a  fas- 
cinating woman  as  "  salty."  Old  Spain  had  a  great 
sovereign,  a  wonderful  woman,  in  Isabella,  who  pre- 
sented her  husband  with  an  heir  one  week  and  rode  to 
battle  the  next ;  who  was  undaunted  by  obstacles  and 
never,  never,  gave  up  anything  on  which  she  had  set 
her  heart.  In  the  Royal  Chapel  at  Granada  I  saw  her 
jewel-box  and  her  crown,  both  poor  beside  such  things 
of  to-day,  silver-gilt  and  without  one  gem,  if  I  remem- 
ber aright,  but  authentic  and  capable  of  giving  me  a 
thrill.  Think  of  what  they  mean  to  us!  Without 
them  we  might  never  have  been.  Our  debt  to  Spain 
is  greater  far  than  our  debt  to  France,  for  France  when 
she  helped  us  was  moved  by  selfishness,  by  the  desire 
to  stick  a  knife  into  England's  back,  while  the  noble 
Isabella  responded  to  a  vision. 

National  Dances 

By  the  time  I  reached  Spain,  T  had  seen  the  dances 
of  practically  every  country  in  the  world.  So  I  speak 
not  without  knowledge  when  I  say  that  there  are  none 
more  beautiful  than  those  which  come  to  our  very 
doors.  When  music  combines  with  drama,  as  in  opera, 
or  with  pantomime,  as  in  the  dance,  the  soul  is  on 
wings.     It   was   to    the    swooning   beauty    of    Leda's 


146  Within  My  Horizon 

Swan,  .and  the  intoxicating  swing  of  Glazounow's 
Bacchanale,  that  Pavlowa  arrived,  with  the  equally 
wonderful  Mordkin.  As  a  duo,  in  their  languor,  their 
line  and  color,  their  peculiar  regard  for  each  other, 
their  spontaneous  give  and  take,  their  thrilling  orgies 
and  poetic  drift  into  the  world  of  the  fay  —  these  two 
have  never  been  surpassed.  Together  they  were  per- 
fect, an  event  in  history;  but  alone,  thereafter,  each 
went  lame ;  and  great  was  the  public  lament  when,  for 
some  unfortunate  reason,  they  separated.  Mordkin 
was  the  apotheosis  of  the  lover,  Pavlowa  the  answer  to 
his  every  call ;  it  was  endless  delight  to  watch  each  draw 
out  the  best  in  the  other  —  a  beautiful  game  of  seek 
and  find  which  may  never  come  in  such  perfection 
again. 

Nijinsky  was  different.  In  the  first  place  when  he 
arrived  in  America  he  had  recently  married.  He 
looked  married ;  he  was  heavier  —  no  longer  the  thing 
of  lightness  over  which  Europe  raved.  His  technique 
was  still  superb,  but  his  body  refused  readily  to  re- 
spond. He  seemed  to  care  only  for  characterization, 
while  the  very  heart  of  the  dance,  granting  high  skill, 
is  emotion.  He  was  sensuous,  suggestive  and  haunt- 
ing in  "  L'Apres-midi  d'un  Faun,"  but  only  in  "  La 
Princesse  Enchantee  "  did  he  spring  into  the  captivat- 
ing rhythm  of  romance  and  love.  Nijinsky  surrenders 
himself  beautifully  to  the  beat  of  his  measures  and  is 
unrivalled  in  his  whirls,  but  he  has  little  magnetism  — 
Mordkin's  special  charm.  For  all  the  world,  as  you 
know,  loves  a  lover. 


Peaks  of  Travel  147 

In  the  Black  Forest 

The  prettiest  thing  Triberg  did  for  us  was  to  get  up 
a  thunderstorm;  and  from  our  rooms  at  the  Schwarz- 
wald,  commanding  prospects  north,  east,  west  and 
down  the  valley,  it  was  like  a  front  seat  in  the  balcony 
at  the  play.  Showers  come  up  suddenly  in  this  moun- 
tain retreat ;  and  cease,  as  in  our  own  Adirondacks,  as 
abruptly  as  a  Spanish  dance.  Apparently,  they  do 
little  damage,  with  all  their  black  looks,  and  in  this 
high  yet  sheltered  situation  one  may  watch  them  with- 
out fear.  Yet  the  zigzags  were  vivid,  the  reverbera- 
tions immediate  and  startling,  making  at  least  for  ex- 
citement. At  four  in  the  afternoon  it  was  nearly  as 
dark  as  at  midnight,  with  the  rifts  in  the  hills  full  of 
smoking  fog,  and  the  clouds  ugly  and  lowering. 

If  the  midst  of  the  downpour,  "  raining  up,"  as 
mother  used  to  say,  came  the  clang  of  church  bells  ;  then 
the  chimes  played  a  tune  above  a  solemn  undertone 
whose  one  persistent  note  smacked  of  the  Orient.  At 
the  moment,  it  seemed  like  a  cry  to  God  for  protec- 
tion ;  and  knowing  the  serious  Teutonic  nature,  espe- 
cially in  the  forest  regions,  where  the  religion  of 
Christ  has  a  strong  hold,  such  may  have  been  the  truth. 
It  remains  with  me,  that  strange  outburst  of  melody, 
together  with  the  lightning,  the  thunder,  the  porten- 
tous dark,  the  torrents  and  the  scent  of  wet  fir,  as 
peculiarly  an  expression  of  the  soul  of  things,  beauti- 
ful, isolated,  wild,  in  the  depths  of  Nature's  own  realm. 

I  never  listen  to  "  Stillc  Xacht,  Heilige  Nacht."  by  the 
Nebe  Quartet,  that  its  rich  and  beautiful  harmonies  do 
not  seem  a  reflection  of  our  sweet  Sunday  at  Triberg. 


XX 

JAVA 

"  I'd  seen  the  Tropics  first  that  run  —  new  fruit,  new  smell, 

new  air- — 
How  could  I  tell  —  blind  foo'  wi'  sun  —  the  de'il  was  lurking 

there? 
By  day  like  play-house  scenes  the  shore  slid  past  our  sleepy 

eyes, 
By  night  those  soft  lasceevious  stars  leered  from  those  velvet 

skies." 

Substitute  Equator  for  Tropics  and  you  have  the 
feeling  that  came  to  me  not  less  than  Kipling's  Mc- 
Andrew  in  his  "  Hymn  "  when  the  King  Wilhelm  I  slid 
to  Batavia  from  Singapore.  The  landing  at  the  port 
of  Tandjong  Priok  was  attended,  as  are  all  such  land- 
ings, by  much  tiresome  detail,  but  finally  we  found 
ourselves  in  comfortable  cars  riding  through  succulent 
vegetation  glistening  from  the  terrific  torrents  so  com- 
mon in  the  equatorial  belt  on  both  sides  of  the  globe. 
In  the  Tropics  it  does  not  rain  by  the  ordinary  method 
of  quickly  falling  drops;  the  drops  run  together  in  one 
solid  line  —  there  seems  a  direct  material  connection 
between  earth  and  sky.  To  keep  a  thread  dry,  if  you 
happen  to  get  caught  in  the  shower,  is  impossible,  but 
as  a  spectacle  it  is  grand. 

The  first  glimpse  of  Batavia,  nine  miles   from  the 

148 


Java  149 

port,  with  its  high-pitched,  softly-colored  tiled  roofs, 
all  after  the  Amsterdam  pattern,  in  browns  and  reds 
mellowed  by  climate  and  time ;  and  especially  the  sub- 
urb of  Weltevreden,  with  its  spreading  tropical  foliage, 
its  great  waringen  trees,  its  bungalows  and  its  canals  — 
is  captivating.  At  the  Hotel  der  Nederlanden,  I  occu- 
pied an  immense  bed,  large  enough  for  four,  eight  feet 
by  eight  square,  with  hard  pillows  for  repose,  a  short 
round  bolster  to  play  with,  a  lower  sheet  only  and, 
suspended  over  the  four  tall  posts,  serviceable  mosquito 
netting.  The  air  was  so  oppressive  even  at  6  a.  m. 
that  I  gladly  rose  and  went  to  the  bath,  many  doors 
away  on  the  wide  verandah,  which  follows  the  great 
parallelogram  of  the  court,  a  riotous  park  of  flowers, 
shrubs  and  tall  trees,  on  whose  trunks  and  branches 
white  orchids  flourish  luxuriantly,  and  all  night  watch 
with  their  unwinking  eves. 

After  I  entered  the  bath-house  and  bolted  the  door, 
the  Malay  attendant  closed  the  huge  shutters  from  the 
outside,  leaving  me  in  a  lovely  green  twilight.  On 
the  stone  floor  stood  a  gigantic  earthen  jar,  grace- 
ful in  shape,  generous  in  girth,  and  full  to  the  brim 
of  fresh  clear  water  which  I  was  supposed  to  dip  out 
with  a  gourd  and  pour  over  myself.  This  is  the  only 
kind  of  bath,  to  let  the  water  touch  you  but  once,  that 
the  Orientals  of  all  lands  except  Japan  consider  pure 
and  clean  ;  and  you  must  admit  that  there  is  something 
in  it  —  in  a  way  a  shower-bath,  as  refreshing  as  it  is 
picturesque. 

Then  a  cold,  comfortless  drink  of  coffee,  poured 
from  a  small,  glass-stoppered  carafe  into  a  cup,  with 
double  its  quantity  of  milk,  and  sugar  crystals.     Brazil 


150  Within  My  Horizon 

is  the  only  coffee  land  that  knows  how  to  make  palat- 
able its  own  beverage  —  at  least  in  hotels.  It  made 
me  homesick,  but  I  sipped  it  on  the  verandah,  looking 
out  into  the  early  morning  beauty  one  cannot  have  in 
New  York,  no  one  in  sight  save  the  unobtrusive  Ma- 
lays. The  scene,  as  Joseph  Conrad  says,  is  impalpable 
and  enslaving,  "  like  a  whispered  promise  of  mysteri- 
ous delight." 

At  Moos,  the  Government  Rest  House  where  we 
passed  the  night  on  the  way  to  Djogjakarta  and  Boro 
Boedor,  it  was  the  same;  and  on  our  way  back,  at 
Buitenzorg,  Batavia's  Sans  Souci  among  the  hills,  it 
was  more  so  —  in  that  every  prospect  pleased  and  even 
the  coffee  was  not  so  very  vile.  For  the  grounds  at 
the  Bellevue  are  like  the  woods  themselves,  with  the 
bath  at  the  end  of  a  moss-covered,  thickly  shaded  walk; 
while  the  view  of  great  Salak  beyond,  and  the  river 
with  its  native  village  far  below,  where  the  little  brown 
people  do  everything  without  thought  of  shame,  is  end- 
lessly alluring.  Nor  should  I  forget  the  rich  aromatic 
curries;  or  the  famous  mangosteens  of  this  hotel,  and 
of  the  Nederlanden  in  Batavia,  that  white  fruit  in  a 
blood-red  setting  which  I  deliberately  went  around  the 
world  to  eat  only  to  find  that  I  liked  the  humble  ram- 
boutan  at  Singapore  better,  with  its  prickly  crimson 
husk  and  sweet-sour  lemonade  flavor ;  or  the  most 
luscious  pineapples  on  earth,  out  of  which  the  Prince 
of  India  made  a  heavenly  drink. 

It  was  in  Buitenzorg  that  we  learned  much  about 
the  sarong,  but  it  was  in  Djogjakarta  that  we  saw  the 
greatest  variety,  old  as  well  as  new,  for  they  never 
fade  or  wear  out  and  the  ancient  cotton  is  almost  like 


Java  151 

silk  to  the  touch,  and  by  tourists  the  most  sought  for 
of  all.  In  these  days  of  Batik  and  Bakst  wonders,  we 
think  we  know  something  about  the  Orient,  yet  it  is 
a  revelation  to  see  a  sarong  in  full  operation,  particu- 
larly in  Java,  where  they  make  an  art  of  it  in  decora- 
tion. It  is  the  universal  native  costume  in  Burmah 
and  the  Malay  peninsula  as  well,  but  in  the  Dutch  pos- 
sessions it  is  capable  of  freaks  of  fashion  in  coloring 
if  not  in  cut.  The  garment  is  a  straight  piece  of  cloth 
wrapped  tightly  about  the  body  and  reaching  from 
ankles  to  waist,  the  rest  of  the  figure  encased  in  a 
jacket,  or  bit  of  drapery,  as  the  wearer  may  be  inclined, 
the  men  frequently  wearing  trousers  of  the  same  ma- 
terial, with  a  handkerchief  about  the  head.  I  had 
heard  of  the  Javanese  sarong,  but  I  never  dreamed  it 
to  be  what  it  really  is :  the  laborious  painting,  generally 
on  fine  cotton,  by  a  woman's  hand,  of  various  intricate 
designs;  a  single,  ordinary  garment,  of  two  yards  in 
length,  and  about  one  in  width,  requiring  for  its  com- 
pletion at  least  three  months,  and  if  the  work  is  elab- 
orate, many  more.  The  process  was  so  interesting,  as 
I  watched  it  one  morning,  that  a  word  about  it  might 
be  so  to  you.  First,  the  design  of  the  centre  is  marked 
out  on  white  cloth,  then  a  peculiar  instrument,  looking 
like  nothing  so  much  as  a  Pompeiian  hand  lamp,  only 
of  tin,  and  dropping  from  its  point  a  thick  gum,  is 
applied  to  all  parts  not  desired  to  be  colored.  Next, 
the  remainder  is  dipped  in  vegetable  dye,  the  kind  that 
never  fades  or  "  runs."  This  process  is  repeated  many 
times,  and  while  it  is  going  on  the  article  looks  more 
like  a  piece  of  table  oilcloth  than  anything  else  as  it  is 
hung  on  a  line  to  drv,  but  the  final  outcome  is  a  soft, 


152  Within  My  Horizon 

flexible  material,  covered  with  sometimes  beautiful, 
sometimes  grotesque  patterns,  and  every  inch  the  result 
of  a  patient,  definite  hand  labor.  The  designs  and  col- 
ors ordered  by  the  Sultans  and  the  upper  classes  are 
often  exceedingly  lovely,  and  the  best  sarongs  are  al- 
most as  fine  and  delicate  as  the  celebrated  Indian 
"  ring "  shawls,  though  generally  of  cotton.  There 
are  sarongs  of  silk,  but  they  do  not  "  paint  "  as  well  as 
cotton,  and  the  latter  are  fully  as  expensive. 

Have  yon  ever  watched  a  storm  creep  down  a  tropi- 
cal mountain  not  far  away?  Salak  is  an  extinct  vol- 
cano, and  every  afternoon  while  I  was  there  in  Febru- 
ary and  March,  the  rain  came  on  with  fierce  thunder 
and  lightning.  First,  out  of  a  clear  sky,  the  clouds 
materialized  from  nowhere  about  the  high,  isolated 
peak;  then  the  vapors  would  accumulate  and  unify  and 
soon  there  was  a  majestic  spectacle  —  a  solid  wall  of 
rain,  like  a  compact  army,  in  slow,  solemn  precision 
passing  from  top  to  base  and  on  and  off  to  refresh  the 
lower  land.  Salak  lends  itself  wonderfully  to  this 
phenomenon,  for  between  the  hotel  and  the  mountain 
there  is  nothing  but  a  deep  valley;  the  view  is  unob- 
structed, and  I  came  to  look  forward  to  the  shower  as 
to  an  event.  Nothing  in  all  Java  so  fascinated  me, 
unless  it  were  the  descent  on  horseback  from  Papanda- 
jan,  the  more  or  less  active  volcano  at  Garoet,  where 
every  step  opened  up  vistas  down  into  great  tropical 
gorges.  Here  the  tree  ferns  grow  wild,  bright  orchids 
and  creepers  cling  to  every  possible  branch,  and  in  the 
depths  of  the  shadows  fierce  animals  lurk  sullenly. 
As  Conrad  said  of  a  different  continent,  "  It  was  like 
traveling  back  to  the  earliest  beginnings  of  the  world, 


Java  153 

when  vegetation  rioted  and  the  big  trees  were  kings." 
I  think  of  it  often  now  that  the  Netherland  Indies 
are  a  mere  pinpoint  on  the  map  at  the  back  of  the 
world. 

To  think  that  where  these  magnificent  ravines  thrill 
you  with  their  sylvan  beauty,  on  August  12,  1772,  all 
was  darkness  and  terror !  Java  is  volcanic  from  end 
to  end,  from  smoking  Bromo  on  the  east  to  the  Strait 
of  Sunda  on  the  west;  but  no  section  is  more  danger- 
ous, with  seven  or  more  active  volcanoes  grouped  in- 
side a  radius  of  twenty  miles,  than  that  close  to  the 
dense  green  that  was  mine  on  that  peaceful  Sunday 
morning.  Conrad  speaks  for  me  when  he  winds  up 
his  "  Youth  "  with  these  lines :  "  I  have  seen  the  mys- 
terious shores,  the  still  waters,  the  brown  natives,  .  .  . 
but  to  me  all  the  East  is  contained  in  this  vision  of  my 
youth.  .  .  .  And  this  is  all  there  is  left  of  it!  Only 
a  moment;  a  moment  of  strength,  of  romance,  of 
glamour.  ...  A  flick  of  sunshine  upon  a  strange 
shore,  the  time  to  remember,  the  time  for  a  sigh  — 
goodby !  " 


XXI 

SOUTHERN    INDIA 

Java  was  the  far  goal  of  my  second  world  tour; 
the  first  following  the  stars  from  east  to  west,  the  sec- 
ond striking  out  boldly  for  the  East  Indies,  via  Naples, 
Egypt,  Ceylon,  Burmah,  Singapore,  and  back  again 
the  same  way.  On  this  memorable  trip  I  had  a  guest ; 
an  artistic  temperament,  female  —  and  thereby  hangs 
a  tale,  several  of  them,  which  may  never  be  told.  Also 
on  this  journey,  between  Colombo  and  Rangoon,  I 
met  the  Prince  of  India,  whose  friendship  I  hold  to  this 
day,  and  about  whom  more  in  the  next  chapter.  The 
Prince  went  with  us  all  the  way  to  Java  and  return, 
changing  his  own  plans  to  do  so,  was  on  the  train  that 
took  us  to  Mandalay,  and  continued  with  us  into 
Southern  India,  where  I  went  to  see  the  Dravidian 
temples,  totally  unlike  the  Moslem  loveliness  in  Agra 
and  Delhi. 

It  was  late  in  the  season,  the  dry  heat  of  April  was 
upon  the  land,  Cook's  man  shook  his  head,  but  go  I 
would  and  did.  That  night  on  the  small  Aska,  taken 
from  its  pearl  fishing  to  replace  the  regular  steamship, 
injured  in  a  collision,  I  shall  never  forget.  I  am  ac- 
counted a  good  sailor ;  but  this  time  I  made  no  bones 
of  it  —  I  simply  lay  down  and  died.  The  winds  blew 
and  the  waves  rose  and  our  cockle-shell  followed  every 

154 


Southern  India  155 

caprice  of  both;  I  was  either  flat  on  my  back  in  a  berth 
that  knew  no  repose  or  face  downwards  anywhere  it 
happened,  gasping  and  groaning.  Yet  with  all  the 
commotion  there  was  not  a  breath  of  fresh  air  in  our 
cabin,  which  was  on  the  lee  side,  and  I  woke  more  than 
once  from  a  troubled  sleep  in  an  oldfashioned  sweat. 
It  seemed  as  though  the  whole  earth's  atmosphere  had 
gone  somewhere  else. 

In  the  morning,  there  being  no  stewardess,  the 
"  temperament "  lay  white  and  still,  while  I,  too, 
matched  the  spotless  paint  that  formed  our  background. 
I  determined  to  get  on  deck;  but  oh,  the  despair  with 
which  I  regarded  my  shoes  and  stockings  —  the  hope- 
lessness of  ever  managing  my  brush  and  comb!  That 
I  did  at  last  get  into  my  clothes,  even  accomplished  a 
bath,  and  wildly  bound  up  my  hair,  tells  the  conquest 
of  mind  over  matter  more  surely  than  many  a  greater 
deed. 

Once  on  deck,  I  became  shamelessly  supine  again, 
on  a  narrow  bench  by  the  hatch,  with  the  whole  ship's 
company  of  chivalric  officers  and  picturesque  natives, 
not  a  woman  but  our  two  selves  aboard,  grouped  help- 
lessly around.  Upon  each  and  all  I  fastened  my  wan 
eyes  and  begged  to  be  let  alone.  Afterwards,  the 
captain  said  I  needn't  be  so  mortified;  that  for  several 
hours  in  this  brief  passage  from  Colombo  to  Tuticorin 
there  was  nothing  between  our  little  boat  and  the  Ant- 
arctic—  that  it  was  one  of  the  windiest  bits  of  sea  off 
Asia.  Breakfast  was  served  at  anchor  in  the  harbor 
on  the  hatch,  the  ship's  compass  in  the  centre  shining 
like  a  great  brass  samovar;  the  simple  repast  of  tea, 
toast  and  jam  pleasantly  seasoned  with  the  courtesy  of 


156  Within  My  Horizon 

the  Scotch  captain,  the  well-travelled  engineer,  and  a 
very  blue-eyed  first-officer  —  all  in  impeccable  white. 

Madura  was  reached  by  train  the  same  afternoon, 
and  the  next  day  we  stood  before  that  renowned  tem- 
ple, dedicated  to  the  Hindoo  god  Shiva.  From  afar 
we  had  caught  glimpses  of  the  four  huge  towers  or 
gopuras,  each  indicating  a  point  of  the  compass,  and 
within  the  walls  were  five  other  smaller  towers,  all 
seven  pyramidal  in  shape  and  marvels  of  rich  detail 
and  bold  design.  Gazing  upward,  an  infinitude  of 
execution  in  stone,  gods,  animals,  flowers,  stood  re- 
vealed to  the  topmost  block.  It  was  an  actual  orgie 
of  Brahminic  sacred  art  —  a  supreme  and  eternal 
tribute  to  the  mystery  of  the  unknown.  Its  effect  on 
our  Indian  Prince,  whose  long  absence  from  those  of 
his  own  faith  must  have  been  hard  for  him,  was  plain 
to  see.  His  was  a  deeply  religious  as  well  as  an  in- 
tensely patriotic  soul.  I  remember  on  the  Palitana, 
coming  back  from  Singapore  to  Rangoon,  again  with 
kind  and  informal  Scotch  officers,  the  dream  voyage 
of  a  lifetime  in  its  blissful  absence  of  passengers,  how 
he  would  lie  with  closed  eyes  for  an  hour  each  morning 
before  breakfast  in  solemn  meditation;  and  one  eve- 
ning on  the  Staffordshire,  covering  the  next  sea  lap 
of  our  journey,  how  his  whole  being  seemed  trans- 
formed by  a  talk  as  to  how  he  best  could  benefit  his 
beloved,  sorely  tried  India.  A  sad,  cold,  reserved 
countenance  was  illumined  into  high  beauty  through 
the  aroused  heart  and  soul. 

On  the  edge  of  the  sacred  tank,  the  water  a  dull 
jade  hue  from  the  daily  offerings  of  perfumes  and  oils, 
I  mused  long  on  the  divers  manifestations  in  all  lands 


Southern  India  157 

of  one  idea.  Which  is  right,  who  can  determine? 
Perhaps  none  is  wrong.  In  a  world  where  character 
counts  more  than  opinion,  one  should  be  slow  to  criti- 
cize any  religious  belief.  The  East,  as  it  was  cradle, 
may  yet  be  crown,  to  civilization.  The  restless  West 
may  finally  resent  its  cruel  god  of  action  which  costs 
mankind  so  much.  But  just  now  the  Anglo-Saxon  is 
so  sure! 

We  wandered  through  the  long  galleries,  one  costing 
a  million  pounds  sterling,  crowded  with  sculptured 
divinities  and  beasts;  peered  into  shadowy  interiors 
where  priests  were  moving  about  dimly,  whence  floated 
out  the  muffled  sounds  and  alien  scents  of  some  rite 
possessing  the  charm  of  things  forbidden  —  since  be- 
yond a  certain  barrier  we  could  not  go.  The  intersec- 
tion of  two  corridors  disclosed  a  vista  of  grand  old 
columns  decorated  as  no  occidental  mind  could  con- 
ceive, while  approaching  torches  heralded  a  unique 
procession  bearing  idols  to  the  accompaniment  of  in- 
struments quite  out  of  our  ken  —  a  spectacle  as  far 
removed  from  our  own  hemisphere  as  the  Sacred  Bull 
from  Saint  John  the  Divine.  Yet  this  is  the  ancient 
religion  of  Brahma,  which  has  a  special  hold  on  the 
native  rulers  of  India,  who  in  their  long  lineage  and 
deep  lore  smile  at  the  pretentions  of  the  West  and  pity 
us  as  we  never  pity  them. 

The  Hall  of  the  Thousand  Columns,  also  full  of 
strangeness  and  gloom,  harbors  has  reliefs  in  dark 
corners  that  prove  a  fillip  to  certain  tourist  minds,  in 
that  they  are  devoted  to  the  greatest  mystery  of  all  — 
that  which  has  to  do  with  the  origin  of  life.  This  is 
ever  in  the  oriental  consciousness  in  a  wholly  reverent 


158  Within  My  Horizon 

way,  yet  of  it  we  are  afraid  or  ashamed  to  speak. 
The  temple  in  its  present  form,  with  the  marvelous 
gopuras,  is  the  work  of  a  mighty  potentate,  Teruinala 
Nayak,  whose  palace  still  stands,  representing  India 
at  the  climax  of  her  wealth  and  power,  when  Peter  the 
Great  thought  it  worth  his  while  to  propitiate  the  ruler 
by  presenting  the  house  of  worship  with  two  splendid 
bronze  doors. 


XXII 

THE    PRINCE   OF    INDIA 

It  was  at  Madura  that  we  bade  farewell  to  our  Indian 
Prince,  sorry  enough  to  part  with  so  kind  and  con- 
siderate a  companion,  who  had  now  been  with  us  on 
six  sea  voyages  and  in  five  lands.  The  first  I  saw  of 
him  was  on  the  good  old  Lancashire,  directly  opposite 
me  at  table,  as  the  ship  was  steaming  out  of  Colombo 
for  Rangoon.  Then  I  noticed  this  dark-hued  gentle- 
man, whom  I  thought  to  be  a  Eurasian,  the  offspring 
of  a  European  by  an  Asiatic,  simply  because,  to  my 
knowledge,  I  had  never  seen  one.  Evidently  a  man 
on  board  thought  the  same,  since  he  whispered  to  me : 
"  A  lick  of  the  tar-brush  there!  "  It  just  so  happened 
that  this  man  himself,  an  Englishman,  was  of  that 
persuasion,  with  a  dainty  little  Burmese  wife.  To  me, 
Prince  Lakhubha  looks  far  more  Spanish  than  Indian, 
and  I  should  have  inferred  'that  if  I  had  not  met  him 
on  the  Bay  of  Bengal. 

At  first  we  knew  him  only  by  his  informal  family 
name  of  Jadeja,  all  the  time  believing  him  to  be  a 
Eurasian,  because  somebody  said  so.  The  English 
aboard  evidently  had  made  up  their  minds,  and  swept 
both  him  and  us,  as  we  often  met,  with  glances  of  su- 
preme contempt.  Even  in  Java,  among  the  more 
kindly  and  careless  Dutch,  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel 
at  Batavia  saw  fit  to  take  me  aside  one  day  and  warn 

150 


160  Within  My  Horizon 

me,  saying  the  Eurasians  were  held  in  small  repute 
throughout  the  whole  Indies.  It  was  not  until  the 
journey  was  nearing  its  end  that  Jadeja  told  us  the 
truth ;  that  he  travelled  incognito  because  circumstances 
interfered  with  the  use  of  the  name  and  retinue  to 
which  he  was  entitled;  that  he  was  a  prince  of  the 
blood,  but  had  been  deprived  of  his  station  and  worldly 
trappings  by  the  machinations  of  his  own  relatives  as 
well  as  the  injustice  of  England.  The  following,  in 
brief,  is  the  story  he  told  us  in  the  spring  of  1905,  and 
it  was  corroborated  in  every  particular,  during  the 
two  years  succeeding,  by  the  courts,  the  press  and  the 
British  "  Who's  Who." 

Kumar  Shri  Lakhubha,  the  Most  High  Prince 
Lakhubha,  our  Mr.  Jadeja,  was  the  unsuccessful  claim- 
ant in  contests  over  the  native  throne  of  Nawanagar, 
Kathiawar,  Rajputana,  India.  The  final  decision  was 
given  in  the  Indian  courts  February,  1907,  in  favor  of 
Prince  Ranjitsinhji,  an  heir  by  adoption  only,  but 
more  or  less  a  pal  of  Edward  VII,  because  of  his  good 
cricket  playing.     Hence  our  Jadeja's  tears. 

Prince  Lakhubha  is  the  only  legitimate  grandson  of 
the  great  Vibhaji,  Shri  Sir  Vibhaji,  Jam  Saheb  of 
Nawanagar,  from  1852  to  1896  the  most  forceful  ruler 
since  the  British  occupation.  The  only  direct  lineal 
descendant,  Lakhubha  would  seem  to  take  precedence 
of  all  others  by  every  moral  as  well  as  legal  right,  yet 
he  has  twice  been  disappointed  in  his  hopes  to  ascend 
the  "  gadi  "  or  feudal  seat  of  his  ancestors.  Nothing 
whatever  could  be  adduced  against  him  personally,  nor 
any  flaw  be  discovered  in  his  right  to  the  throne,  ex- 


The  Prince  of  India  161 

cept  that  his  father,  Kalubha,  Vibhaji's  own  legal  son, 
had  given  cause  for  deep  offence. 

The  affair  is  one  of  those  confused  Oriental  intrigues 
in  which  Kalubha  was  accused  of  conspiracy  against 
his  own  father.  His  son  claims  this  to  be  a  rank  in- 
justice, but  Vibhaji  lent  ear  to  those  in  the  plot  and 
placed  the  victim  in  close  confinement,  despite  the 
vehement  protests  of  himself  and  his  son  to  the  day 
of  his  death  —  a  death  of  which  the  son  did  not  learn 
until  two  years  after  its  occurrence.  It  is  probable 
he  was  the  unfortunate  pawn  in  some  terrible  game  of 
political  chess  during  which  treachery  was  rampant  and 
poison  not  unknown. 

Certain  it  is  that  Kalubha's  innocent  son,  the  pres- 
ent Prince  Lakhubha,  was  born  in  a  palace  when  his 
father  was  in  full  power,  and  his  father  was  sent  to 
prison  when  he  was  three  and  one-half  years  old. 
Meantime,  still  unreconciled,  Vibhaji  adopted  as  his 
heir  Ranjitsinhji,  the  nephew  of  a  deceased  cousin; 
but  in  1882,  Vibhaji  once  more  became  a  father, 
through  a  concubine,  and  thereupon  appealed  to  the 
Government  to  set  aside  Rangy's  claims,  which  was 
done;  and  after  Vibhaji  died  this  son,  though  natural 
born,  succeeded,  when  of  age,  to  the  throne,  despite 
Lakhubha's  protests,  but  died  within  a  year.  Then 
Prince  Lakhubha  again  fiercely  contested  the  right  of 
succession  with  Rangy,  but  for  some  covert  reason, 
the  partiality  of  Edward  the  King  or  a  better  game  of 
politics,  he  lost  and  Rangy  became  II.  II.  Maharajah, 
Jam  Saheb  of  Nawanagar,  by  grace  of  England  rather 
than  of  God. 


162  Within  My  Horizon 

More,  the  half  million  dollars  which  Vibhaji, 
through  some  compunction,  left  to  Prince  Lakhubha 
personally  in  his  will,  was  kept  back  by  these  pirates 
for  the  support  of  a  wife  whom  he  had  never  seen 
and  who  was  married  to  him  without  his  consent! 
Rather  unhealthful  these  Indian  thrones  seem  in  vari- 
ous ways.  Lakhubha  has  some  reason  to  be  glad  that 
he  is  out  of  it.  I  told  him  so  once,  and  he  answered: 
"  Yes,  perhaps,  for  my  own  pleasure ;  but  I  keep  think- 
ing what  I  might  be  able  to  do  for  my  people  —  and 
for  India." 

These  things  make  one  ponder  much  on  that  England 
who  rules  these  alien  subjects  of  hers  sternly  without 
seeking  to  extirpate  the  general  discontent  by  removing 
the  cause.  Personally,  I  have  seen  enough  in  Great 
Britain's  conquered  lands  to  make  me  smile  at  her 
pretentions  to  righteousness.  Germany  at  least  had 
the  zeal  of  the  convert;  she  was  full  of  her  dreams  as 
a  benefactor  not  less  than  a  master  of  mankind  — 
while  England  and  the  English,  vain  and  weary,  know 
it  can't  be  so.  More  than  one  broad-minded  English 
man  or  woman  has  said  to  me  that  there  can  be  no  true 
peace  in  the  world  as  long  as  the  British  Empire  stands. 

Returning  to  Ceylon,  loud  over  Java's  charms,  that 
Java  which  was  given  to  the  Dutch  by  the  English  in 
exchange  for  Ceylon,  "  Yes,"  said  the  Englishman  with 
whom  I  was  talking,  meditatively,  "  we  ought  to  have 
kept  Java  too."  I  remember  well  how  I  wanted  to 
cuff  the  ears  of  a  young  sprig  of  the  British  army, 
when  he  ordered  my  Egyptian  dragoman  off  a  spot, 
near  the  Mosque  of  Mohamet  Ali,  where  he  had  every 
right  to  be,  as  if  he  were  a  dog.     Nor  shall  I  soon 


The  Prince  of  India  163 

forget  the  pitiful  resentment  of  old  Mahmoud,  our 
kindly  guide  in  Upper  Egypt,  when  two  Tommies 
jostled  him  and  told  him  to  get  out,  as  he  obeyed  his 
master's  orders  to  put  me  on  the  night  train  at  Luxor. 
At  Cairo  I  saw  a  white  man  crack  over  the  head  an 
Arab  he  himself  had  run  into,  and  then  call  for  the 
police  when  the  victim  showed  anger.  A  British 
artist  at  Darjeeling,  most  charming  to  us  in  the  eve- 
ning, at  dawn  beat  mercilessly  his  native  servant  for 
some  slight  offence.  And  so  it  goes  on  in  matters 
great  and  small. 

Prince  Lakhubha  said  publicly  in  1909:  "  The  agi- 
tation in  India  is  founded  on  the  sense  of  profound 
injustice  suffered  at  the  hand  of  the  authorities.  It 
is  impossible  for  those  unacquainted  with  the  methods 
of  government  employed  by  Great  Britain  in  India  to 
understand  what  takes  place;  to  know  how  utterly  in- 
adequate are  the  promises  made  in  the  King's  message. 
In  Western  countries  petitions  would  publicly  be  heard 
before  recognized  tribunals ;  in  India  no  one  has  any 
right  of  audience,  there  is  no  public  hearing,  no  rea- 
sons are  ever  given  for  the  acceptance  or  rejection  of 
a  petition,  the  so-called  judgment  is  a  single  yes  or 
no.  At  least  three  thrones  of  India  are  occupied  by 
rulers  who  would  never  be  there  if  their  claims  had 
been  determined  by  the  usual  rules  of  evidence,  while 
numberless  rightful  claimants  have  been  rejected  by 
the  British  authorities.  Let  England  prove  her  sym- 
pathy by  deeds  not  words:  by  appointing  officials  who 
understand  the  Indian  people  or  who  have  a  hereditary 
right  to  rule  —  then  sedition  will  melt  away  as  the 
snow  in  spring." 


164  Within  My  Horizon 

The  ideality  of  this  Prince  of  India,  the  serious  re- 
flection, the  delicacy  and  refinement  of  the  man,  his 
hatred  of  brutality  and  war,  told  me  why  his  country 
so  easily  was  conquered  and  kept  under  England's  heel. 
Yet  it  was  not  through  him,  who  naturally  does  not 
adore  England  for  her  scorn  of  all  he  holds  dear,  that 
I  heard  of  the  revolt  against  prevailing  conditions, 
but  from  all  over,  once  they  knew  me  to  be  an  Ameri- 
can, towards  whose  freedom  their  thoughts  often 
turned ;  but  what  they  think  now,  I  have  no  idea.  I 
know  only  that  when  I  was  there,  in  1898  as  well  as  in 
1905,  their  hopes  and  affections  were  centered  upon 
us  as  upon  a  promised  land  and  star. 


XXIII 

MY    MOTHER    AND    MY    GEMS 

In  the  early  spring  of  1900  I  lost  my  mother. 
Though  she  had  been  slowly  fading  away  for  over  two 
years,  the  actual  event  was  a  heavy  blow.  It  seemed 
impossible  that  she  who  had  been  with  me  always 
could  be  with  me  no  more.  The  difference  between 
the  tenuous  spirit  within  the  frail  body  and  this  utter 
emptiness  was  enormous. 

For  the  second  time  I  went  through  a  great  grief, 
but  for  the  first  time  without  my  mother  —  that  mother 
who  had  never  failed  me;  who  knew  no  weariness 
either  with  my  troubles  or  joys  —  who  had  seemed  as 
integral  part  of  me  and  my  life  as  my  heart  or  my 
eyes.  Even  my  marriage  had  not  separated  us ;  she 
was  invited  to  come  and  live  in  the  roomy  old  Brooklyn 
house,  and  gladly  did  so  —  making  it  all  the  brighter 
and  more  comfortable  with  her  cheerful  spirit  and  her 
busy  needle.  Never,  never,  shall  I  forget,  after  a 
wild  rush  to  the  Island  of  Jamaica,  hoping  to  lift  the 
lead  from  my  heart,  the  supreme  desolation  of  coming 
home  to  no  mother. 

When  my  brother  died  I  was  young.  All  of  life 
was  before  me.  I  was  sad,  and  for  years,  at  his  sud- 
den talcing  off,  but  the  world  still  beckoned.      Now  T 

seemed   to  have  come  to   an   impasse.     I    set   myself 

105 


166  Within  My  Horizon 

down  and  began  to  think.  Queer,  how  I  never  had 
done  that  before.  I  had  acted  as  if  life  were  to  last 
forever.  In  a  sense  I  had  never  grown  up.  People 
used  to  say  that  I  obeyed  my  mother  as  if  I  were 
a  small  child;  good  for  me  at  the  time,  perhaps,  but 
bad  for  me  now  —  now  that  she  had  gone  to  that 
bourne  whence  no  traveller  returns.  I  suddenly  real- 
ized, what  often  had  been  said  before,  but  which,  as 
with  all  truth,  you  do  not  understand  until  you  find  it 
out  for  yourself,  that  the  only  real,  the  only  vital  things 
in  this  life  are  the  things  you  cannot  touch  or  appraise. 

How  cheap,  how  incredible  after  this,  seemed  the 
mad  rush  for  money  —  gold  for  the  sake  of  gold;  for 
ostentation,  for  the  superfluities,  not  primarily  for 
security  and  independence.  I  did  not  know  then  that 
this  was  Commercialism,  the  disease  of  over-crowding 
humanity,  for  which,  in  bulk,  nobody  is  especially  to 
blame.  But  I  did  know  all  at  once  that  without  love, 
the  love  that  does  not  dicker  or  demand,  the  love  that 
means  service  and  sacrifice,  all  is  dust  and  ashes,  be- 
reft of  the  fire  divine. 

The  landing  on  that  memorable  return  from  Jamaica 
to  New  York  was  in  the  midst  of  as  terrific  a  down- 
pour as  any  of  the  tropical  rains  I  had  left  behind.  I 
ran  up  the  familiar  brownstone  steps,  unlocked  the  big 
front  door,  and  crept  upstairs  to  my  room.  Oh,  the 
silence  of  that  empty  house- — -the  silence  and  the 
dread !  In  that  moment  I  drank  as  bitter  a  cup  as  the 
one  I  had  run  away  from. 

Yet  even  as  my  heart  sank,  there  came  the  sound 
of  running  feet,  and  Swedish  Anna  stood  before  me, 


"MOTIIKR 


My  Mother  and  My  Gems  167 

all  welcome  in  her  shining  eyes.  It  was  good  to  see 
her,  she  who  had  been  fidelity  itself  through  the  long 
illness,  and  the  lead  over  my  heart  lifted  a  little.  I 
was  particularly  struck  when  after  dinner  she  said, 
"  How  cheerful  it  seems  to  see  the  rings  on  your 
fingers  again !  " 

Something  to  live  for  after  all :  a  fine,  manly  hus- 
band and  a  faithful  maid;  and  whether  or  not  her  re- 
mark about  the  psychological  value  of  jewels  influ- 
enced me,  immediately  I  set  myself  a  task,  to  relieve 
the  ache  of  loneliness,  and  in  four  months  completed 
the  little  volume  growing  in  my  mind  for  several  years, 
called  "  Gems."  It  was  an  attempt  in  simple  words 
and  engaging  manner,  after  the  dull  and  ponderous 
treatises  I  had  gone  through,  to  interest  men  and 
women  constructively  in  these  wonderful  mineral 
flowers;  to  acquaint  them  with  some  of  their  poetic 
features  as  well  as  their  essential  characteristics. 

More  than  one  publisher  looked  the  thing  over,  ad- 
mitted that  it  was  interesting  and  that  there  was  room 
for  such  a  book,  yet  could  not  see  in  it  "  a  commercial 
proposition."  This  may  be,  for  books  that  are  com- 
mercial propositions  frequently  have  astonished  me ; 
so  at  last  I  put  it  out  myself,  as  simple  propaganda, 
and  at  least  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  there  was 
a  certain  demand  for  it  without  any  backing  or  push- 
ing. It  also  received  the  approval  of  the  Xew  York 
and  other  public  libraries,  as  well  as  of  Tiffany's  ex- 
pert, himself  a  mineralogical  authority  of  no  small 
standing.  All  these  people  contended  that  such  a 
volume    on    precious    stones    in   a    popular    style    was 


168  Within  My  Horizon 

greatly  needed,  but  the  publishers  did  not  agree  with 
them  —  and  so !  Anyhow,  it  was  purely  a  labor  of 
love,  and  in  a  sense  brought  me  love,  though  I  may  not 
tell  you  how  or  why. 

It  seems  a  sorry  thing  that  the  men  who  deal  in 
stones  and  the  men  and  women  who  wear  them  know 
so  little  about  them  as  living  things  —  as  a  part  of  the 
great  family  of  Nature,  having  birth,  growth,  long 
life  and  interesting  history;  almost  as  interesting  and 
beautiful  as  the  stars  of  the  sky,  to  which  they  seem 
akin ;  and  it  was  to  a  "  lover  of  gems  in  earth  and  sky  " 
that  I  dedicated  the  book  —  my  friend,  Zona  Gale. 

The  publication  of  this  really-truly  cloth-bound 
volume  in  1916,  marked  the  close  of  a  series  of  pam- 
phlets, half  a  dozen  of  them,  reprints  of  letters  of  mine 
to  the  Standard  Union  during  the  first  eighteen  months 
of  the  great  world  war,  in  which  I  sought  to  stem  the 
tide  of  a  public  opinion  as  I  thought  gone  sadly  astray. 
Of  course  I  failed,  as  must  all  fail  who  go  against  the 
prevailing  trend  in  a  time  of  popular  excitement;  but 
I  am  not  the  less  glad  that  I  made  the  attempt,  for  not 
only  did  I  square  myself  with  my  own  conscience,  but 
unexpectedly  made  some  of  the  most  vital  friendships 
of  my  life.  The  fact  that  our  own  beloved  country 
was  at  last  involved,  whether  for  good  or  ill,  is  beside 
the  point.  While  none  can  stifle  his  feelings  as  to  an 
action  so  momentous,  when  it  comes  to  a  call  from 
the  mother  who  bore  you  —  there  can  be  but  one  re- 

pty- 

I  regret  nothing;  for  if  I  had  not  published  my 
pamphlets  in  defence  of  Germany,  it  would  never  have 
occurred  to  me  to  make  audible,  so  to  speak,  my  manu- 


My  Mother  and  My  Gems  169 

script  on  "  Gems  " ;  and  if  any  full-blown  author  takes 
more  pleasure  in  the  popularity  of  his  latest  novel 
than  I  do  in  my  few  appreciative  readers,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  the  dear  human  hearts  that  happily  have  become 
mine  —  he  is  fortunate! 


XXIV 

ZONA    GALE 

"  A  lonely  pine   tree   standeth 

On  a  chilly  mountain  height, 
The  snow  and  ice  while  it  sleepeth 

Weave  round  it  a  garment  white. 

"  It  dreameth  not  of  a  palm  tree 

That  far  in  a  southern  land 
Alone  and  silent  standeth 

On  a  plain  of  burning  sand." 

When  I  sailed  away  for  a  fairer  land,  in  that  bleak 

March  of   1909,   I  took  Zona  Gale   with  me  —  dear 

Zona,  my  friend  of  nine  long  years,  who  always  in  my 

mind  stands  for  Beauty.     I  met  her,  a  young  reporter, 

and  a  friend  of  a  friend,  during  a  brief  stay  after  long 

absence  in  old  Milwaukee.     There,  at  the  Plankinton, 

she  "interviewed"  me;  and  the  following  winter  she 

came  for  the  first  time  to  New  York  —  a  vision  of 

loveliness  in  a  charming  gray  gown  and  a  mink  turban 

capped  by  a  pink  velvet  flower.      She  was  one  of  the 

most  beautiful  young  women  I  ever  had  met  or  seen; 

and  I  have  met  Modjeska  and  seen  Lina  Cavalieri  and 

Cleo  de  Merode,  the  last  of  whom  she  resembled  and 

even  eclipsed  —  for  Mi.nd  looked  out   from  her  soft 

dark  eyes.     It  was  a  face  to  evoke  dreams ;  and  her 

slight  vet  delicatelv  rounded  figure  did  the  rest  —  that 

170 


Zona  Gale  171 

and  her  manner,  her  fine  courtesy,  and  the  best  part 
of  her,  as  I  found  when  I  came  to  know  her  well,  her 
intense  filial  devotion.  Her  complexion,  a  creamy 
olive,  was  southern,  and  she  had  the  languor  of  the 
south,  too ;  yet  she  was  entirely  northern,  born  and 
bred  in  Wisconsin,  of  New  York  and  New  England 
stock,  and  no  girl  worked  harder,  in  all  hours  and 
weathers  —  as  a  special  reporter  for  the  New  York 
World.  She  loved  the  work,  she  never  shirked  it, 
but  she  had  the  penetration  to  perceive  that,  as  she  ex- 
pressed it,  she  was  not  "  getting  anywhere,"  with  all 
her  gratifying  returns,  sometimes  $100  a  week.  In 
a  great  city  there  are  thousands  of  temptations,  and  she 
began  to  realize  at  last,  as  she  wearied  of  the  artificial 
life  of  the  metropolis,  that  she  could  not  do  better  than 
go  back  to  her  home  town,  Portage,  Wisconsin,  and 
fight  the  problem  out  on  a  different  line.  But  first  she 
spent  a  year  at  Lawrence  Park,  Bronxville,  as  secre- 
tary to  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  living  with  his 
family  in  that  delightful  retreat,  where  I  found  her 
amidst  the  books  of  Stedman's  large  library,  which 
they  both  looked  after  with  tender  care. 

About  this  time  she  put  out  her  "  Pelleas  and  Et- 
tare  "  sketches,  the  fantasy  of  an  old  couple,  in  love 
with  each  other  and  with  life,  told  in  her  own  subtle 
way,  with  delicacy  and  humor,  which  made  an  im- 
pression; and  after  that  came  the  connection  with 
the  Macmillan  Company,  the  great  popularity  of 
"  Friendship  Village,"  her  books  in  every  library,  the 
highest  price  paid  in  New  York  for  short  stories;  this, 
besides  the  natural  outgrowth  of  it,  her  social  and 
civic   work   in    Portage,    an   artistic   residence   on   the 


172  Within  My  Horizon 

Wisconsin  River,  an  income  from  her  writings  be- 
yond peradventure  and  at  last  the  really  big  novel 
"  Birth," —  and  best  of  all,  her  spurs  won  while  she  is 
young  enough  to  enjoy  them.  Counting  the  youth- 
ful journalistic  work  upon  leaving  Wisconsin  Univer- 
sity, which  ended  with  some  twenty  months  on  the 
World,  this  has  taken  nearly  two  decades  of  per- 
sistence, concentration  and  industry.  As  Miss  Gale 
is  one  of  the  few  women  who  do  not  hesitate  to  tell 
their  age,  I  think  she  will  not  mind  this  summing  up 
of  the  years,  since  her  career  is  a  remarkable  illustra- 
tion of  what  intense  application  can  do,  given  no  more 
transcendant  gifts  than  a  charming  literary  style,  a 
kindly,  observing  eye  and  something  to  say.  She  also 
has  the  good  sense  to  take  care  of  herself,  which  may 
be  one  reason  why  she  is  still  lily-like,  still  beautiful, 
and  always  exquisitely  dressed,  with  an  unfailing  feel- 
ing for  color,  texture  and  line  rather  than  the  latest  cry. 
In  other  words,  while  not  ignoring  fashion,  she  thinks 
for  herself. 

Zona  was  with  me  in  1902  at  Adirondack  Lodge, 
ten  miles  into  the  woods  from  Lake  Placid.  The 
Lodge  was  a  unique  log-house  with  all  comforts,  built 
by  a  unique  man,  a  bachelor  whose  romance  of  some 
twenty  years  before  had  ended  in  a  tragedy.  The 
lover  was  an  American,  able  to  support  the  girl,  but 
not  in  the  way  the  Canadian  father,  who  forbade  the 
marriage,  desired.  Separated  from  him,  in  her  de- 
spair the  girl  jumped  into  Niagara;  while  he,  desolate 
beyond  words,  left  the  world  to  cherish  her  memory 
in  this  lonely  spot  —  lonely  yet  wondrous,  and  which 
she  herself,  from  the  peak  of  Tahawus  with  him,  had 


Zona  Gale  173 

selected  for  their  future  home.  It  was  in  the  heart  of 
the  Adirondacks,  with  a  lake  shaped  like  a  heart  and 
so  named  by  him,  as  he  named  the  mountain  near  by  Jo, 
because  she  was  Josephine.  How  we  loved  it  all;  but 
soon  after  we  left,  everything  was  swept  from  the  face 
of  the  earth  by  a  disastrous  forest  fire  which  spared 
nothing  in  its  wake  from  the  immediate  vicinity  to  the 
edge  of  the  woods  —  and  which  Mr.  Van,  as  we  all 
called  him,  devoutly  wished  had  not  spared  him. 
They  thought  he  was  lost,  as  he  wandered  in  the  con- 
tiguous forest  for  days,  saved  by  instinct  rather  than 
desire. 

But  these  dread  happenings  were  of  the  future  when 
Zona  and  I  dwelt  there,  that  lovely  week  in  October, 
after  the  guests  were  gone.  She  was  Little  Moon- 
stone in  my  journalistic  stories  then,  as  Mr.  Van  was 
Leather  Stocking,  because  he  was  a  hunter  and,  like 
Cooper's  hero,  wore  them ;  and  she  because  she  was 
born  in  August,  and  the  lucky  moonstone  of  the  Orient 
is  her  birthright.  One  day  the  three  of  us  walked  to 
Indian  Pass,  the  source  of  the  Hudson,  and  back  again 
to  Adirondack  Lodge,  a  hard  ten  miles  over  a  lonely 
trail,  on  the  home-stretch  in  a  pouring  rain,  nearly 
losing  ourselves  as  night  came  on.  Indeed,  we  should 
have  been  lost  entirely,  as  we  were  soaked  to  the  skin, 
but  for  the  extraordinary  woodcraft  of  our  guide. 

On  the  ship  to  Jamaica,  seven  years  later,  Zona 
looked  and  seemed  just  the  same,  as  bent  on  enjoying 
the  warm  scent  of  the  tropics  as  once  the  cool  spice  of 
the  balsam  and  fir.  Yes,  after  many  days  she  was 
with  me  in  my  wanderings  again,  still  resembling 
Merode,  but  grown  from  thoughtless  girl  to  thought- 


174  Within  My  Horizon 

ful  woman.  At  this  moment  we  were  tired,  so  tired, 
Little  Moonstone  and  I,  and  simply  to  rest  quietly  on 
that  quiet  deck,  watching  the  flying-fishes  play,  was 
like  balm  on  open  wounds.  The  soul  grows  in  divers 
ways.  One  must  be  when,  after  the  battle,  the  weary 
soldier  can  sleep  on  his  arms.  Then  to  him  come 
visions,  clarifying  themselves  into  startling  truths, 
which  means  new  joy,  the  joy  that  must  have  met 
Columbus  on  this  same  stretch  of  water,  when  first 
he  beheld  the  land-hugging  ocean-flower  that  meant 
victory  —  this  same  gulf -weed  drifting  towards  us 
then  as  toward  him  four  centuries  ago. 

The  approach  to  Jamaica,  wraith-like  in  the  midst 
of  its  densely  green  background  of  mountains,  was  as 
beautiful  as  anything  of  its  kind  in  the  world.  It  was 
early  morning,  and  the  ship  followed  hard  on  the  heel 
of  a  shower,  which  means  that  before  we  saw  the 
enchanting  isle  we  smelled  the  sweet  breath  of  it. 
Then  came  the  surprise  that  Kingston  was  one  more 
of  earth's  star  harbors,  in  that  it  embraces  the  moun- 
tains not  less  than  the  sea.  A  pocket  Venus  it  is,  like 
Little  Moonstone  herself,  but  it  can  hold  up  its  head 
as  proudly,  in  its  effect  on  those  who  see  it  as  we  saw 
it,  as  grand  Rio  itself.  We  liked  Kingston  so  much, 
particularly  the  Constant  Spring  Hotel,  with  its  native 
food,  its  artistic  setting,  its  atmosphere.  Relying  on 
the  tales  of  travelers,  we  left  it  too  soon,  and  hungered 
to  get  back  to  it  again,  despite  the  fact  that  the  city 
had  recently  been  almost  destroyed  by  earthquake. 

The  attractions  of  Jamaica,  while  manifold,  are  on 
a  small  scale  as  compared  to  greater  countries,  but 
they  are  most  artistically  grouped.     It  is  not  so  much 


Zona  Gale  175 

the  actual  height  of  a  mountain  or  depth  of  a  valley 
as  their  relation  to  each  other  and  to  you.  Thus  the 
marvel  of  the  view  from  Newcastle  is  as  startling  in 
its  surprise,  though  of  a  different  character,  as  that 
from  our  own  Mount  Willard  at  the  Gate-of-the- 
Notch;  while  absolutely  indescribable  is  the  grandeur 
of  the  drive  from  Ewarton  to  Moneague  over  Mount 
Diablo,  only  1,800  feet  in  altitude  yet  meaning  so 
much  more  —  especially  under  lowering  skies  near 
eventide  after  a  tropic  downpour.  Never  can  one  for- 
get the  wonder  of  that  prolonged  gaze  down  into  the 
deep  valley  which  ends  in  the  quaint  parish  of  St. 
Thomas-in-ye-Vale,  and  forms  the  watershed  of  two 
important  streams  entering  the  sea  in  opposite  direc- 
tions. Palms,  creepers,  tree  ferns  flourish  there  in 
abundance,  and  the  almost  equatorial  luxuriance  of 
this  vegetation,  heightened  in  the  picture  by  the  dark 
overhanging  clouds  and  the  refreshing  moisture  of  the 
recent  shower,  had  the  effect  in  its  pulsating  beauty 
almost  of  pain. 

At  dawn  one  day,  after  a  little  rest  at  Moneague's 
much-vaunted  hotel,  which  recalled  to  its  own  undo- 
ing the  lovely  Bellevue  at  Buitenzorg  in  Java,  we 
started  for  Port  Antonio,  running  through  the  moun- 
tains on  a  hot,  dusty  train,  eyes  full  of  cinders,  with 
no  comforts,  even  ice-water  at  a  price,  until  suddenly 
we  came  upon  the  Caribbean  Sea.  Then  I  understood 
as  never  before,  having  a  passion  for  the  mountains, 
how  the  Greeks,  after  the  Retreat  of  the  Ten  Thou- 
sand, fell  on  their  knees  at  the  sight  of  their  own  bine 
water  again,  crying  with  all  their  hearts  :  "  Thalassa ! 
Thalassa!" 


176  Within  My  Horizon 

The  approach  to  Port  Antonio,  head  of  the  United 
Fruit  Company's  industries,  as  we  ran  in  and  out 
among  the  bays,  the  mountains  on  one  hand,  the  bright 
curving  sands  on  the  other,  with  acres  upon  acres  of 
bananas  and  cocoanuts  on  the  golden  plains  between, 
was  notable  for  a  sunset  as  eloquent  as  fine  music. 
At  one  point  we  looked  back,  then  hung  together 
breathless,  mute  under  the  glory  of  a  special  scene. 
Two  mountain  ranges  intersected  there,  to  the  right 
the  turquoise  Caribbean,  and  a  bit  of  white,  white 
beach  on  which  the  waves  fell  lazily.  Towards  them, 
against  a  ridge  of  dull  old  blue,  itself  backed  by  the 
more  emphatic  green  of  the  higher  hills,  leaned  one 
young  cocoanut  palm,  at  a  hazardous  angle,  a  little 
separated  from  its  fellows,  its  feathery  foliage  hang- 
ing like  a  woman's  hair.  So  might  a  maiden  seem  to 
droop  and  yield  to  the  persuasion  of  her  lover  —  in 
this  case  the  Sea :  eternally  beckoning,  infinitely  mys- 
terious, forever  vital  and  supreme. 

While  the  palm  said  so  much,  and  also  the  sea,  the 
great  moment  was  above,  in  the  glory  along  the  line 
of  the  hills,  concentrating  the  intense  cosmic  cry.  For 
the  heavens  at  that  point  were  like  a  conflagration,  the 
clouds  huge  masses  of  flame,  while  the  sun  dropped 
below  the  horizon  stealthily,  as  after  an  evil  deed  well 
done.  It  was  warmth  and  color  and  beauty  and  ter- 
ror in  one ;  in  a  space  that  could  have  been  covered 
by  a  small  painting  —  and  what,  granting  wealth, 
would  not  one  give  the  artist  who  could  adequately 
reproduce  such  a  memorable  scene  ? 

For  to  me  it  was  so  much  more  than  a  sunset.  It 
was,  in  a  picture  and  a  moment,  The  Tropics.     A 


Zona  Gale  177 

magic  enwrapped  the  vision  and  out  of  it  came  the 
voice  of  the  South ;  precisely  as  on  another  occasion 
it  had  been  the  voice  of  the  North.  My  thought  flew 
from  this  riot  of  color,  from  that  palm  and  sea,  to  a 
tumultuous  brook  rushing  down  Mount  Mclntyre  near 
Adirondack  Lodge  —  then  living  and  beautiful;  hills, 
woods,  homestead,  all.  Under  us  was  the  elastic  bed 
of  the  Adirondack  forest,  a  marvelous  mixture  of 
moss,  old  roots  and  powdered  wood  —  as  easy  for  the 
feet  as  an  old  slipper.  In  the  twilight  of  the  firs,  so 
pure,  so  virginal,  so  ineffably  sweet,  the  clean  sweet  of 
the  virile  North,  my  friend  handed  me  the  cup  of 
cold  water,  saying  then  even  as  now,  "  Helen,  let  us 
remember  this!"  At  that  moment,  the  intimacy  of 
the  North  Woods ;  in  this,  a  more  fevered  land  —  and 
the  two  of  us,  the  seven  years  between,  though  loving 
each  other  well,  separated  half  the  time  by  half  a 
world. 

One  day  at  Kingston,  from  our  suite  in  the  Con- 
stant Spring  Hotel,  Little  Moonstone  saw  for  the  first 
time  the  Southern  Cross.  That  night  we  clung  to- 
gether in  the  enchanting  moonlight  by  which  you  can 
read  fine  print  till  after  ten.  It  was  fairyland,  with 
the  mountains  clearly  visible,  the  sea  sparkling  five 
miles  away,  the  palms  turning  to  silver  in  Diana's 
ravs,  enormous  stars  all  around,  even  that  old  friend  of 
Indian  Ocean  days  —  great  Canopus,  with  his  gor- 
geous prismatic  play,  still  trembling  like  a  diamond 
on  the  ear  of  Night. 

Bright  and  true  the  Cross  hung,  at  an  acute  angle 
to  the  sea,  one  of  the  magnificent  things  of  the  world, 
and  the  living  expression  of  all  that  lies  deepest  in  the 


178  Within  My  Horizon 

human  heart.  Set  forever  in  the  southern  sky,  that 
high  symbol  cannot  but  help  us,  as  God  meant  it  should, 
to  live :  to  know  renunciation  not  less  than  happiness, 
and  at  last  to  meet  Death  bravely  —  not  as  foe  but 
friend. 


XXV 

PEARY 

For  some  years,  as  you  know,  Peary's  name  was  on 
all  lips;  not  only  because  of  his  undeniable  achieve- 
ment, the  greatest  of  his  time,  but  because  of  the  hesi- 
tation, to  put  it  mildly,  to  choose  between  this  man  of 
irreproachable  standing,  in  the  scientific  not  less  than 
the  social  world,  and  a  rank  charlatan.  The  fact  that 
the  American  public,  without  one  scintilla  of  actual 
evidence  on  a  highly  specialized  subject,  could  swallow 
such  a  falsehood  and  stick  to  in  some  measure  to  this 
very  day  (for  there  are  still  those  who  believe  in 
Cook)  leaves  me  with  but  little  confidence  in  its  de- 
cisions about  anything,  for  it  goes  on  its  emotions 
rather  than  its  reason. 

However,  an  important  portion  stood  firm  for  Peary 
throughout,  either  through  knowledge  of  him  or  the 
subject  or  the  absurdity  of  any  other  conclusion,  and 
one  of  these  stalwarts  was  the  State  of  Maine.  One 
day  in  September,  1910,  we  undertook  to  visit  the 
hero,  at  his  home  on  Eagle  Island,  and  even  before 
reaching  Portland  we  began  to  get  whiffs  of  him,  as 
it  were.  At  Boston  we  ran  into  the  Casco  Bay  fold- 
ers with  pictures  of  the  Island  and  "  The  Dog  that 
Got  to  the  Pole" — got  there  and  back  to  civiliza- 
tion only  to  die  of  one  of  civilization's  many  diseases; 

and  all  along  the  line  it  became  more  and  more  evi- 

179 


180  Within  My  Horizon 

dent  that  Maine  regards  Peary  with  the  pride  and 
affection  due  a  great  and  favorite  son.  The  rock- 
bound  State  never  was  in  doubt,  never  misunderstood 
either  word  or  action,  but  always  and  forever  stood 
staunchly  by  and  wondered  at  the  confusion  abroad. 
It  takes  the  strong  to  know  the  strong;  they  feel  not 
impatience  but  something  like  pity  for  weaker  beings 
—  for  such  as  are  sure  of  so  much  that  isn't  so. 
Probably  there  is  more  of  this  sort  of  hysteria  in  the 
highly  excitable  United  States  of  America  than  any- 
where else  on  the  globe.  This  is  somewhat  due  to  the 
climate,  which  encourages  nervousness,  and  more  to 
superficial  information,  very  common  here  in  matters 
out  of  one's  special  line,  but  most  of  all  to  that  na- 
tional cocksureness  which  scorns  such  a  little  thing  as 
seeking  knowledge  humbly. 

Peary  was  the  unfortunate  victim  of  a  national  de- 
lusion simply  because  the  counterfeit,  having  lain  low 
in  a  comfortable  corner  while  the  other  was  doing  the 
deed,  got  the  ear  of  the  public  first.  That  is  fatal  in 
a  country  which,  like  most  women,  often  acts  on  its 
intuitions  rather  than  on  patient  investigation.  The 
small  minority  of  well-informed  knew  that  the  prepos- 
terous thing  claimed  by  little  more  than  a  tyro  was  im- 
possible; that  only  an  expedition  marshalled  as  for 
a  great  battle,  with  every  aid  and  equipment  of  ship, 
food,  tools  and  men,  to  say  nothing  of  endless  dogs, 
could  even  hope  to  attain  the  end.  Yet,  when  Cook 
coolly  announced  that  it  was  as  easy  as  falling  off  a 
log,  that  he  had  done  it  with  no  ship,  little  food,  two 
lads  with  their  sledges  and  a  few  dogs,  child's  play  be- 
side  Peary's   tremendous  preparation,   the   entire  na- 


Peary  181 

tion  fell  over  itself  to  honor  him;  most  of  them  harp- 
ing on  Peary's  bad  manners,  the  more  liberal  declar- 
ing that  both  had  got  there  —  the  unkindest  cut  of  all, 
in  a  matter  where  priority  is  everything,  and  to  which 
Peary  had  sacrificed  over  twenty  years  of  his  life. 
That  needn't  have  been,  however,  had  the  generosity 
of  America  to  her  daring  sons  been  as  great  as  Eng- 
land's to  hers;  for  a  ship,  an  ice-ship  like  the  final 
Roosevelt,  is  half  the  battle. 

I  only  wish  the  world  could  see  Peary  in  his  home; 
how  soon  then  would  the  conception  of  him  as  for- 
bidding, lacking  all  the  gentler  qualities,  vanish.  Dig- 
nity is  his,  of  course,  but  a  man  of  simpler  tastes,  of 
more  frank,  almost  boyish,  pleasure  in  all  real  things, 
the  woods,  the  water,  the  sun,  the  storm,  birds,  ani- 
mals, stones,  flowers,  never  lived.  Children  love  him 
and  that  alone  is  a  sign,  while  he  will  feed  a  faithful 
beast  before  himself. 

Throughout  the  house  at  Eagle  Island  are  all  sorts 
of  interesting  things  showing  Peary's  early  tastes  and 
the  habit  of  thoroughness  even  in  boyhood.  A  col- 
lection of  hawks,  almost  every  variety  in  Xew  Eng- 
land, testifies  to  one  line  of  inquiry.  The  bronze  hinge 
from  the  old  Water  (late  of  Fort  San  Marcos  at  St. 
Augustine,  swinging  idly  in  wind  and  wave  all  the  time 
he  was  there,  tempted  him  one  day  to  swim  out  and 
appropriate  it  —  only  to  discover  that  constant  fric- 
tion on  the  parts  from  above  and  below  had  worn  the 
nail  almost  as  thin  as  a  wedding  ring  of  pure  gold. 
Ancient  bronze  cannon,  of  the  time  of  Columbus,  were 
also  fished  up  by  him  from  the  Florida  reefs. 

What  originally  took   Peary  there  is  an  interesting 


182  Within  My  Horizon 

story  in  itself.  In  1910,  when  there  was  still  a  grouch 
on,  some  skinflint  Congressman,  with  paper  and  pencil 
in  hand,  figured  out  that  the  conqueror  of  the  Pole 
had  cost  the  United  States,  as  an  officer  in  the  En- 
gineering Corps  of  the  Navy,  some  $35,000;  this  vast 
sum  representing  his  modest  salaries  since  his  first 
connection  with  the  Government,  including  the  part 
pay  allowed  his  family  while  he  was  risking  his  life 
to  win  what  all  nations  coveted  —  the  great  geo- 
graphical prize  of  the  centuries.  Little  enough  at  best, 
one  would  think,  yet  it  just  so  happens  that  the  whole 
of  this  sum,  the  ordinary  upkeep  of  a  loyal  servant  of 
the  Republic,  he  saved  the  Powers  that  Be  on  his  first 
job!  An  iron  colliery  pier  was  to  be  built  at  Key 
West ;  figures  had  been  submitted,  but  the  Government 
ordered  Peary  to  examine  the  foundation,  which  he 
did  intimately,  sometimes  in  a  diving-suit,  sometimes 
in  his  birthday  suit,  as  he  puts  it,  and  what  he  dis- 
covered and  rectified  proved  an  economy  to  Uncle  Sam 
of  just  $35,000!  In  the  Navy  Department  are  the 
records  covering  the  whole  transaction. 

Pretty  small  potatoes,  this  calculation  of  what  a 
great  man  and  patriot  has  cost  the  country  he  serves 
in  monthly  installments  laid  end  to  end ;  and  only  that 
—  for  the  expensive  enterprise  of  the  Pole  was  financed 
by  private  means.  But  to  what  lengths  will  not  a  man 
go  when  he  finds  himself  in  the  wrong  and  is  too  small 
to  confess  it?  The  bestowal  of  a  Rear-Admiralty 
wrung  from  a  reluctant  Congress  in  no  sense  makes  up 
to  those  who  love  Peary  for  the  cruelty  inflicted  at  a 
time  which  should  have  been  his  glorious  triumphal 
hour. 


Peary  183 

To  return  to 'the  pleasanter  subject  of  Eagle  Island. 
Less  than  a  mile  long  and  half  as  wide,  it  is  a  fit  and 
beautiful  home  for  Peary,  all  his  own;  "  high,  wave- 
washed,  and  intimate  with  the  stars."  It  seems  as 
remote  from  the  haunts  of  man  as  a  virgin  wood,  and 
is  full  of  ferns  and  wildflowers,  and  possesses  springs. 
The  little  pink  twin-flower,  perhaps  that  which  the 
Swedes  call  the  Linnea,  as  sweet  as  the  Mayflower,  is 
found  there,  and  in  June  wild  roses,  one  bush  that  year 
with  148  blossoms.  Beside  a  great  square  giant's 
bath-tub,  as  it  might  well  be  called,  within  whose  stone 
walls  the  tide  rushes  and  tosses  the  surf  high  on  the 
beach,  Peary  pointed  to  a  spot  and  proclaimed  with 
almost  oratorical  emphasis,  so  important  did  it  seem 
to  him:  "Right  there  I  found  a  specimen  of  blue 
flag!" 

Yet  sometimes  the  sea  rages,  the  waves  pound  and 
throw  their  salt  over  the  house  and  the  cherished  lawn, 
killing  the  grass,  and  then  only  strong  men  dare,  take 
the  trip  to  South  Harpswell.  I  know  we  had  a  nervous 
time  getting  to  the  island,  and  two  days  later  a  still 
harder  time  getting  away,  but  it  is  too  long  a  talc  to 
tell,  with  its  phases  both  sad  and  glad,  though  the  end 
of  it  was  a  race  for  the  Portland  boat  which  was  as 
exciting  as  the  race  for  the  Pole.  If  only  I  could  have 
snapped  Peary  then,  standing  high  with  his  long  legs 
far  apart,  holding  a  broom  aloft  in  one  hand,  a  bit  of 
scarlet  in  the  other,  his  red  hair  shining  in  the  sun  and 
his  blue,  blue  eyes  earnest  enough  to  pull  that  craft 
towards  him  by  sheer  magnetism  alone!  Anyhow,  we 
won  the  race,  with  Peary  as  jubilant  as  a  boy,  for 
there  is  nothing:  he  likes  better. 


184  Within  My  Horizon 

Years  before,  when  he  returned  with  mutilated  feet, 
I  asked:  "Why  go  again?  The  walking  here  is 
good.     You  have  fame  already." 

"  A  man  likes  to  get  what  he  goes  after,"  he  an- 
swered doggedly. 

"  But  you  may  carry  the  pitcher  to  the  well  once  too 
often." 

'''  Then  it  will  be  only  a  little  sooner  " ;  with  an  un- 
forgettable look  in  his  eyes  —  those  eyes  which  have 
seen  so  much. 

Talking  is  not  Peary's  weakness.  His  words  are 
few,  concise,  almost  bitten  out.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  had  just  the  trace  of  a  lisp  —  though  I  suppose  he 
would  scorn  the  imputation.  I  asked  him  why  he 
never  discussed  people  or  things  and  never  criticized. 
He  answered :  "  Sometimes  it's  because  I  don't  know, 
and  sometimes  because  I  don't  care." 

I  told  him  the  truth  when  I  said  he  had  fame  enough 
without  risking  his  life  again.  But  once  somebody 
said  to  me  that  while  even  at  that  time,  the  beginning 
of  the  twentieth  century,  Peary  was  one  of  America's 
most  distinguished  men,  he  was  not  what  he  would  be 
if  he  gained  the  Pole.  Pie  would  then,  he  said,  be  one 
of  the  great  "  world  "  men,  of  whom  there  were  only 
about  a  hundred,  mentioning  Washington,  Napoleon, 
Columbus  and  Julius  Caesar  as  four. 

The  man  is  dead  now:  I  never  saw  him  after  that 
talk ;  but  I  have  remembered  his  remarks  all  these 
years,  and  now  rejoice  that  Peary  did  not  heed  my 
timid  words,  and  at  last  is  enrolled  among  the  glorious 
One  Hundred. 


XXVI 

ON    SEA    AND    LAND 

S.  S.  Alter,  Mid- Atlantic,  November  9,  1901 :  That 
next  day  after  sailing,  beginning  with  the  band  and 
ending  amidst  the  wails  of  wind  and  wave,  passengers 
and  engines,  was  a  long,  long  day  of  increasing  misery, 
and  the  next  was  even  wilder,  and  the  next  and  the 
next.  But  I  determined  to  make  a  fight  for  the  deck,- 
anything  was  better  than  that  cabin  —  even  if  I  could 
manage  only  bathrobe  and  slippers.  Once  there,  with 
awnings  down  and  chairs  securely  lashed,  it  was  de- 
lightful beside  that  stuffy  stateroom,  with  a  bed  wide 
enough  to  slide  me  back  and  forth  continually.  The 
air  of  the  Gulf  Stream  was  balmy  and  delicious,  de- 
spite the  commotion  of  the  mountainous  waves  and 
the  turbulent  "stream  that  rushed  down  the  deck  when 
the  ship,  one  of  those  narrow  clipper  things,  buried 
her  nose  too  deeply  in  the  sea.  We  were  bound  for 
the  Azores,  and  the  atmosphere  was  correspondingly 
damp  and. mild. 

This  one  moment;  comfort  and  happy  languor — • 
the  next  all  was  changed.  Korward,  coming  down 
upon  me  with  the  speed  of  an  express  train,  appeared 
a  wall  of  water  as  high  as  a  house  and  relentless  as 
fate.  Never  in  my  life  did  I  realize  as  then  the  crush- 
ing finality  of  a  flood  when  it  is  bent  on  a  certain  course 

1S5 


186  Within  My  Horizon 

and  you  are  in  the  way.  I  grasped  the  rail  back  of 
me  with  both  hands,  and  thereby  saved  my  neck,  but 
my  heavy  rug  was  wrenched  off  as  though  it  weighed 
nothing,  and  I  was  yanked,  twisted,  whipped  and 
soaked  from  head  to  foot.  Foolishly  rising  after  this 
immersion,  thinking  to  gain  the  gangway  before  the 
usual  repetition,  I  heard  shrieks  and  instantly  found 
myself  lying  helpless  on  deck,  swallowing  salt  water 
by  the  quart,  until  the  iron  grip  of  a  steward  saved  me 
from  an  ignominious  end.  After  that  no  passenger, 
male  or  female,  was  allowed  on  deck,  while  the  storm 
raged  more  furiously  than  ever,  making  sleep  im- 
possible. Rails  were  bent  and  stanchions  snapped,  as 
you  read  of  in  the  West  Indies,  whence  this  hurricane 
came,  and  a  brand  new  trunk  of  mine  in  the  hold  was 
rusted  by  salt  water  beyond  recognition.  Sometimes 
the  engines  were  stopped,  and  those  were  bad  moments 
for  me,  as  I  had  once  been  warned  of  their  danger. 
But  I  began  to  argue  that  existence  for  all  of  us,  ex- 
cept as  we  can  do  for  others,  is  practically  over  by 
thirty-five;  at  least  Life  is  —  and  save  for  the  love  of 
one  or  two  we  might  as  well  go  as  stay.  The  message 
is  delivered,  the  days  begin  to  repeat  themselves,  an- 
ticipations are  few,  disappointments  many,  and  it  can- 
not be  so  hard  to  pass  on.  Certainly  it  was  a  consola- 
tion so  to  think,  in  that  uncomfortable  cabin  amidst 
the  strange  unsteadiness  of  a  ship  "  hove  to  "  in  a 
wild  Atlantic  gale,  but  I  shall  have  to  confess  that  when 
the  good  old  throb,  throb,  began  again,  hope  sprang 
eternal  in  my  very  human  breast. 

S.   S.  Crctic,  Mediterranean,  December,  22,   1904: 


On  Sea  and  Land  187 

Have  you  ever  known  the  slow  creeping  out  of  New 
York  harbor  in  a  fog  or  snowstorm?  The  ominous 
feeling  by  the  shi'p  of  its  way;  the  constant  bellow  of 
the  deep  whistle,  like  that  of  a  great  frightened  ani- 
mal ;  the  distress  and  anxiety  of  the  tugs  from  pier  to 
channel  —  all  this  is  something  to  experience  and  re- 
member. The  last  thing  I  saw,  the  last  sound  I 
heard,  was  the  restless,  bleating  lightship  sending 
forth  her  incessant  warning  to  boats  and  men.  When 
I  grumbled  to  the  steward,  as  the  weather  grew  nastier 
outside  the  bar,  he  simply  said :  "  Thank  God  we're 
moving."  A  second  thrilling  experience  on  the  voy- 
age was  in  a  "  whole  westerly  gale  "  to  hang  on  to  a 
stanchion  far  forward  and  rise  and  fall  with  every  dip 
of  the  ship  into  the  angry  sea.  The  waves  were  tre- 
mendous, and  had  they  been  the  other  way  about,  from 
east  to  west,  I  should  have  been  drenched  and  swept 
from  my  post ;  but  as  it  was,  they  merely  slid  under  the 
vessel  and  passed  on,  while  she  staggered  and  shud- 
dered and  screamed  with  each  treacherous  blow  in  the 
back.  I  would  look  behind  and  see  a  great  black  wave 
higher  than  the  bridge  pursuing  us  like  an  avenging 
demon;  then  a  moment  of  suspense  when  I  seemed 
poised  between  earth  and  heaven  —  at  the  mercy  of 
the  gray  convulsive  waste  eager  to  destroy  and  devour. 
It  is  at  such  a  time  as  this  that  you  realize  how  well 
the  word  "cruel"  applies  to  hungry,  savage  seas  — 
even  though  they  froth  at  the  mouth  in  marvelous 
green-tinted  foam. 

S.    S.    BhiccJicr,    Caribbean    Sea,    April    7,    191 1: 
John  and  I  are  continually  at  loggerheads  on  the  sub- 


188  Within  My  Horizon 

ject  of  travel.  He  contends  that  progress  by  Pullman 
cars  and  luxurious  steamships  is  not  travel  at  all,  nor 
is  going  from  one  hotel  to  another;  that  for  the  real 
thing  you  can  buy  no  ticket  and  for  food  and  shelter 
must  make  shift  as  best  you  can  —  while  to  me  that 
sort  of  thing  seems  less  travel  than  adventure;  nor  do 
I  consider  it  reprehensible  that  in  seeking  foreign 
lands  I  annex  all  the  comforts  I  can  afford  to  pay  for. 
Off  your  legitimate  base,  up  against  the  unfamiliar, 
missing  the  care  and  calm  of  home,  the  best  is  none  too 
good.  The  place  to  economize  is  not  abroad,  but  at 
your  own  fireside  —  where  work  and  taxes  go  on  for- 
ever and  thrift  counts. 

I  am  afraid  John  is  a  sad  bluffer,  and  delighted  when 
I  take  him  seriously;  for  while  he  scorns  people  who 
do  not  kill  and  cook  their  own  game,  I  yet  have  to  see 
him  pull  a  trigger  or  to  taste  one  dish  he  imagines  he 
can  make.  True,  he  has  commanded  small  ice- 
fighters  in  two  or  three  Arctic  expeditions,  with  the 
laundry  represented  by  soiled  shirts  trailing  at  the 
stern :  and  I  understand  he  has  eaten  with  a  straight 
face  questionable  meat,  and  quarreled  not  with  coffee 
made  from  sea-water;  and  this  has  left  him  with  a 
haughty  soul. 

I  had  hungered  for  South  America :  for  Rio  de 
Janeiro,  the  last  renowned  "  world  "  harbor  by  me  un- 
seen; for  the  storied  wonders  of  the  Strait  of  Ma- 
gellan; for  the  majestic  Andean  chain;  for  the  very 
shape  of  the  continent,  like  a  lovely  woman  lying 
there  — •  so  I  went,  and  despite  John,  in  a  floating  hotel. 

Still,  there  is  nothing  like  home.  One  day  early  in 
the  voyage  wrhen  I  opened  a  book  out  fell  a  letter ;  a 


On  Sea  and  Land  189 

letter  that  had  never  gone  to  post  —  from  the  faithful 
Anna  who  had  packed  my  things.  It  brought  the  wet 
to  my  eyes.     Here  it  is: 

Whenever  you  open  this  little  note,  heaps  of  love  meet 
you  from  Anna  and  Paul.  We  think  of  you  all  the  time. 
Already  we  are  waiting  to  hear  your  welcome  footsteps,  as 
we  long  to  hear  them  when  you  are  gone  only  for  a  few 
hours.  And  now  —  for  so  long  a  time  !  But  we  will  try  to 
do  our  best  —  do  much  work ;  take  good  care  of  the  master, 
which  we  know  will  please  you  most.  Wishing  you  a  pleas- 
ant journey,  with  all  the  joy  the  world  can  give,  Lovingly 
Anna  and  Paul. 

Could  the  best  literary  artist  express  himself  with 
a  finer  feeling  or  simplicity?  Anna  is  the  Swede  I 
may  have  mentioned  before,  who  has  been  with  me, 
though  still  young,  more  than  a  decade  — ■  the  much 
valued  prop  of  the  household.  Outside  the  domestic 
virtues  she  also  excels,  for  she  can  play  the  guitar  and 
sing  like  the  lark  —  as  befits  one  from  the  land  of 
Christine  Xilsson  and  Jenny  Lind.  And  nowhere  can 
you  find  a  truer  heart. 

Paul  is  a  big,  wonderful  Maltese,  handsome  and  in- 
telligent, and  as  dear  as  a  lover.  Even  John,  a  mere 
man,  is  fond  of  Paul.  He  says  he  possesses  two  fine 
qualities  that  I  lack  —  he  can't  talk,  and  he  minds  his 
own  business.  Besides  that  he  smiles,  has  lovely 
golden  melting  eyes,  understands  both  English  and 
Swedish,  and  owns  a  thick  gray  fur  coat,  fitting  him 
perfectlv,  which  if  he  tired  of  it  would  command  a 
price.  Xo  wonder  the  ancient  Egyptians  regarded  this 
beautiful  and  inscrutable  animal  with  reverence. 

The  Bluechcr  was  our  home  without  a  break,  except 


190  Within  My  Horizon 

as  we  went  ashore  to  gaze,  all  the  way  from  New  York 
to  Valparaiso,  which  we  reached  in  a  month  via  Ma- 
gellan, with  its  snow  mountains  and  pendulous  gla- 
ciers and  air  that  was  food,  a  Frost-King's  realm. 
From  Valparaiso  we  went  to  Santiago  de  Chili,  and 
into  beautiful,  most  beautiful,  Santa  Lucia,  that  historic 
fort,  park  and  hill  in  one,  and  at  the  centre  of  the 
metropolis  too ;  thence  to  Buenos  Ayres  over  the  Andes. 
The  Andes  are  extraordinary,  but  they  lack  the  beauty 
we  picture  —  they  are,  rather,  stupendous.  Still, 
beauty,  even  in  Nature,  is  not  everything ;  power,  mag- 
nitude, ferocity,  have  claims  of  their  own;  but  you  do 
not  love  them  as  you  do  fair  and  gentle  things.  Per- 
haps they  do  not  care  to  be  loved,  though  the  abrupt 
change  of  the  seasons,  as  you  descend  from  chill  peak 
to  the  warm  embrace  of  the  coast,  seems  to  say  yes ! 

These  titantic  rocks  neither  in  structure  nor 
in  coloration  are  like  other  rocks ;  they  seem  to  end 
where  the  rest  began  —  huge  conglomerates  thrown 
helter-skelter,  heaved  up  or  tossed  down  by  a  world  in 
agony.  Masses  from  the  fires  of  hell  they  might  well 
be;  the  cold  gray  of  iron;  the  red  of  copper;  the  yel- 
low of  gold;  in  sprawling  heaps,  without  purpose  or 
order,  disintegrating  before  your  eyes  —  while  here 
and  there  enormous  stratifications,  wrenched  out  of 
their  sockets  and  thrust  into  the  perpendicular,  stare 
helplessly  at  heaven.  For  there  is  something  bigger 
and  more  powerful  than  the  Andes  even,  and  that  is, 
but  none  else  —  God. 

Yet  amidst  this  wreck  of  dead  worlds,  amidst  all  this 
confusion  of  primeval  Nature  in  the  throes  of  travail, 
the  hard  precipices  would  now  and  then  fall  apart  and 


On  Sea  and  Land  191 

reveal  an  enchanting  vista,  one  of  deep  sapphire  lead- 
ing up  to  Aconcagua;  another  to  almost  its  twin  in 
size  and  beauty,  the  volcano  Yupungato  —  while  be- 
tween frowning  heights  and  flanks  of  horror  smiled 
the  calm  little  Lake  of  the  Incas  in  its  divine  tur- 
quoise blue. 

Besides  such  paradisal  things,  there  were  impressive 
formations  mimicking  castles,  cathedrals  and  other 
notable  architectural  feats  by  the  hand  of  man  —  ex- 
amples of  the  blessed  forgetfulness  of  an  angry  god 
in  one  of  his  dark  moods,  and  they  are  needed  to  heal 
nerves  torn  by  fear ;  for  to  come  so  near  the  beginnings 
of  things,  to  witness  what  this  apparently  solid  earth  is 
capable  of,  does  fill  one  with  terror. 

At  Rio  de  Janeiro,  Queen  of  Beauty,  with  her  feet 
in  the  blue  tropic  sea  and  the  grandest  of  mountains 
enfolding  her  in  their  strong  arms,  while  the  most  pic- 
turesque of  all,  the  hunchback  Corcovado,  rests  in  her 
very  lap;  at  Rio,  lovely  Rio,  like  a  fair  maiden  dream- 
ing of  the  prince  yet  to  come,  we  bade  goodbye  to 
South  America  —  for,  though  Bahia  and  Para  passed 
us  by,  where  luscious  mangoes,  avocado-pears  and  per- 
fectly ripe  yet  green-rinded  oranges  were  showered 
upon  us,  nothing  thereafter  seemed  to  count. 


XXVII 

IN  THE  BALKANS  "  JUST   BEFORE  THE  WAR  " 

When  we  left  home  in  mid-March,  191 3,  for  the 
International  Geographic  Congress  at  Rome,  I  had  a 
vague  idea  that  after  the  week  of  official  business  this 
strenuous  husband  of  mine  might  be  tempted  to  step 
over  into  Africa  and  bask  in  the  sun  for  a  while  at 
Biskra.  But  not  he;  he  had  received  a  new  light;  he 
was  going  on  and  on,  to  do  a  man's  work  —  even  to  the 
Balkans.  I  shivered,  for  the  first  Balkan  war  was 
hardly  finished,  and  signs  of  the  next  were  in  the  air. 
However,  Fate  is  occasionally  kind :  I  lost  the  spot 
immortalized  by  Hichens,  but  I  gained  infinitely  more ; 
for  John's  plans  became  inextricably  entangled  with 
the  dearest  wish  of  my  heart.  For  ages  I  had  longed 
for  Dalmatia,  absolutely  untouched  by  tourists,  and 
had  begged  for  it  until  John  fiercely  referred  to  it  as 
Damlatia  —  which  shocked  me  and  shut  me  up. 

By  taking  the  train  for  Ancona,  crossing  the 
Adriatic  to  Fiume,  steaming  down  the  coast  to  Ragusa 
and  all  that  lies  within  her  realm,  with  but  a  turn  of 
the  hand  we  could  achieve  several  alluring  things,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  scene  of  war.  So,  goodbye  to  the 
Pearys,  young  and  old,  with  bunches  of  English  vio- 
lets, Roman  cakes  and  pastry,  snapshots,  all  kindly 
little  things  showered  on  us;  while  Stefansson  went 

192 


In  the  Balkans  "  Just  Before  the  War  "     193 

with  us  to  the  very  gate  —  then  off  to  a  brand  new 
land !  The  next  morning,  after  a  rough  night  in  a 
small  boat,  found  us  at  the  now  much  talked  of  Fiume, 
a  picturesque  city  against  its  surrounding  crescent  of 
commanding  hills,  with  massive  stone  quays  that  put 
New  York's  cheap  docks  to  shame.  Here  we  discov- 
ered the  best  coffee  since  home,  drowned  in  whipped 
cream,  Viennese  fashion,  and  accompanied  by  rolls 
but  no  butter.  In  Vienna,  later,  where  the  coffee  is 
always  excellent,  as  in  France  and  Germany,  and 
served  with  whipped  cream.,  a  Russian  visitor  said 
Americans  were  too  particular  about  their  coffee.  I 
know  I  do  care  much  for  it,  as  the  Russians  and  Eng- 
lish for  their  tea  —  a  poor  beverage  it  seems  to  me. 

The  trip  down  the  Dalmatian  coast  in  the  excellent 
steamships  of  the  Hungarian-Croatian  line,  the  water 
of  the  Adriatic  deep  to  its  very  shores,  with  three 
ranges  of  mountains  in  graduated  altitudes  adding 
their  sub-tropical  color  and  snow-capped  grandeur  to 
the  exquisite  scene,  was  like  sailing  through  a  still  lake 
of  many  islands.  Zara,  the  birthplace  of  Felix  Wein- 
gartner,  its  white  houses  on  the  little  peninsula  blush- 
ing in  the  setting  sun,  was  one  of  the  pretty  stops  by 
the  way.  Yet  all  this,  so  beautiful  at  the  time,  faded 
into  insignificance  when,  for  reasons  of  convenience, 
we  steamed  by  Ragusa  early  the  next  morning  and 
passed  on  to  Cattaro.  Here,  the  beauty  of  the  coast, 
which  is  second  to  none,  culminates  in  a  manner  posi- 
tively theatric.  Leaving  the  port  of  Castelnuovo,  a 
miniature  Naples,  Saint  Flmo  and  all,  outside  of  which 
lay  five  Austrian  warships,  ready  to  blockade  Mon- 
tenegro at  any  moment,  it  was  said,  we  passed  through 


194  Within  My  Horizon 

the  Bocchi  di  Cattaro,  the  Mouth,  to  first  one  moun- 
tain-girt bay,  then  another,  like  a  wild,  marvelous 
Swiss  lake,  and  finally  into  a  third  —  as  if  in  a  passage 
of  secret  chambers;  for  each,  with  its  frowning  heights 
and  white  villages,  seemed  the  very  end.  Here  we 
paused,  before  cliffs  above  their  own  clouds,  abso- 
lutely sheer,  even  bent  forward,  as  though  anxious  to 
cast  themselves,  in  their  melancholy  isolation,  into  the 
sea.  It  was  an  astounding  spectacle,  just  across  the 
way  from  laughing  Italy,  yet  as  wild  and  sombre  as 
the  Norwegian  fjords. 

We  wanted  to  climb  up  to  Cettinje,  the  capital  of 
Montenegro;  to  linger  about  Cattaro  itself;  to  see  it 
all  at  dawn  and  set  of  sun;  to  watch  for  days  the 
feathery  mountain  mist  play  hide-and-seek  with  those 
deep  ravines,  those  formidable  heights,  down  which 
the  peasants  came  to  market  by  precipitous  zigzag 
paths  to  sell  their  produce ;  but  we  could  not,  for  John 
seemed  ever  to  hear  the  muttering  of  the  Balkans  — ■ 
so  I  whispered  "  Auf  Wiedersehn,"  though  no  lan- 
guage is  understood  in  these  parts  save  Croatian. 

"  As  behind  a  screen,  on  the  sea's  rim, 
Shadowy  coasts  in  sudden  glory  swim. 
O  land  made  out  of  distance  and  desire ! 
With  ports  of  mystic  pearl  and  crests  of  fire." 

Ragusa  at  last  was  mine,  and  wonder  of  wonders, 
the  reality  fell  but  little  short  of  the  dream.  Every 
height,  crowned  by  a  medieval  fortress,  was  a  picture, 
every  path  a  voyage  of  discovery.  Along  the  base  of 
the  great  mountainous  background  there  is  but  one 
navigable  street,  the  rest,  as  in  Naples,  being  rough 


In  the  Balkans  "  Just  Before  the  War  "     195 

stone  steps  up  and  down  narrow  alleys.  On  the  white 
houses,  and  in  all  open  places,  the  sunshine  pours,  but 
the  shade  is  cool  —  and  that  is  where  Rome's  "  prog- 
ress," her  new  broad  avenues,  fail  in  comfort.  Little 
Ragusa,  unheeded  by  the  countless  thousands  who 
pass  regularly  through  Italy,  happy  in  the  backwater  of 
her  peaceful  coast,  resting  on  the  proud  history  she 
made  for  herself  long  ago,  has  the  best  of  it  in  health, 
comfort  and  simple  joy. 

How  balmy  the  air  was,  after  a  soft  shower,  as  we 
landed  at  Gravosa,  Ragusa's  dainty  little  port,  in  a 
bewitching  land-locked  harbor!  What  charming  pic- 
tures on  every  side  —  substantial  buildings  of  cream 
color,  with  tiled  roofs  of  the  bungalow  type,  the  tiles 
of  a  delicate  terra  cotta,  stood  out  beautifully  against 
the  dark  green  of  cypresses,  as  straight  as  the  human 
sentinels  forever  on  duty,  and  the  young  foliage  of  the 
early  spring.  Ragusa  is  an  engaging  survival  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  It  has  heavy  walls  and  gates,  massive 
forts  and  open  squares,  that  suggest  Florence,  a 
strange  round  fountain  of  bronze  with  carved  faces 
that  used  to  spout  water  from  the  grinning  mouths, 
bases  of  statues  erected  to  patriotic  citizens  denuded 
of  the  figures  lost  in  fortunes  of  weather  or  war,  and 
streets  full  of  Austrian  soldiers,  who  added  greatly  to 
its  smartness  and  color.  Soldiers  constantly  marched 
up  and  down  the  main  street,  often  gaily  piping,  some- 
times solemnly  bearing  the  body  of  a  dead  comrade, 
before  the  garden  of  the  Grand  Imperial  Hotel,  from 
which  the  populace  is  barred  by  great  iron  locked 
gates ;  but  the  populace  never  fails  to  pause  and  take 
notice  both  of  the  soldiers  and  the  hotel. 


196  Within  My  Horizon 

In  the  lobby  of  this  house  was  to  be  seen  often  one  of 
the  handsomest  officers  ever,  the  son  of  the  proprietor, 
who  once  looked  at  his  offspring  and  said  to  John : 
"  Yes,  he  is  a  fine  boy,  but,"  shaking  his  head  mourn- 
fully, "  I  fear  there  is  going  to  be  war." 

Ragusa  came  and  Ragusa  went;  everything  passes, 
all  flows,  as  those  wise  old  Greeks  used  to  say  twenty- 
five  centuries  ago,  and  a  friend  of  yesterday,  "  Noth- 
ing is  changeless  except  change  "  ;  and  a  modern  poet, 
in  a  different  way  and  with  an  added  meaning: 

"  O  death  of  things  that  are,  Eternity 
Of  things  that  seem; 
Of  all  the  happy  past,  remains  to  me, 
To-day,  a  dream ! 

"  Long  blessed  days  of  love  and  waking  thought, 

All,  all  are  dead ; 
Nothing  endures  we  did,  nothing  we  wrought, 

Nothing  we  said. 

"  But  once  I  dreamed  I  sat  and  sang  with  you 
On  Ida  hill. 
There,  in  the  echoes  of  my  life  we  two 
Are  singing  still." 

When  I  left  Ragusa,  sure  that  nothing  in  all  this 
strange  southeastern  Europe  could  be  more  enchant- 
ing than  the  lovely  Star  of  the  Adriatic,  "  meet  for 
love's  regal  dalmatic,"  we  little  dreamed  what  a  long, 
startling,  perfect  day  lay  before  us.  For  twelve  hours 
we  had  every  possible  view  of  the  most  glorious  moun- 
tain scenery  in  the  world  —  through  Herzegovina  and 
Bosnia.  It  was  like  seeing  the  earth  from  a  rocking 
cradle,  so  comfortable  we  were,   zigzagging  up,   zig- 


In  the  Balkans  "  Just  Before  the  War  "     197 

zagging  down,  or  among  the  clouds.  Dusk  did  not 
come  until  the  last  hill  was  passed,  the  last  view  ob- 
tained, and  the  train  sidled  down  to  Sarajevo,  whose 
name  was  soon  to  be  execrated  throughout  the  world 
—  since  from  the  murderous  deed  in  its  streets  sprung 
awful  war. 

All  that  day  there  was  not  a  moment  when  we  did 
not  stare,  at  the  mountains  and  each  other,  to  think- 
so  beautiful  a  world  could  exist  and  be  known  scarcely 
beyond  its  borders.  It  was  a  veritable  wonderland 
of  tumultuous  masses  and  deep,  enclosed  valleys,  with 
the  road  again  and  again  returning  on  itself,  in  cork- 
screw circles,  to  climb  still  higher ;  then,  when  we  had 
reached  the  top,  through  a  tunnel  and  off  again  to  the 
depths,  ready  for  another  pass  and  another  triumph. 
After  we  left  the  summer  resort  of  Jablonica,  with 
its  thick  groves  and  comprehensive  views,  for  an  hour 
or  two  we  were  in  a  recrudescence  of  the  Dolomite 
region.  There  was  a  group  in  pudding-stone  like  a 
conclave  of  hooded  monks,  the  same  sharp-pointed 
hood  you  see  everywhere  there  from  priest  to  peasant. 
It  was  a  terrestrial  tumult  that  kept  us  exclaiming  at 
every  turn,  until  John  finally  declared  that  he  was  all 
worn  out  with  looking  and  was  not  going  to  take  in 
another  thing:  and  we  were  both  rather  glad,  after  the 
fulness  of  the  feast,  when  night  shut  down  and  nature 
too.  Mostar,  an  old  Turkish  town,  is  capital  of 
Herzegovina,  as  is  Sarajevo  of  Bosnia,  but  we  did 
not  stop  at  either  place — time  was  too  precious. 
Xext  morning  we  changed  cars  at  the  Austro-Hun- 
garian  town  of  Brod,  snatched  a  cup  of  good  coffee, 
caught    the    train    for    Belgrade,    changed    twice,    and 


198  Within  My  Horizon 

finally  reached  the  Grand  Hotel  of  Serbia,  with  its 
excellent  beds,  for  the  first  comfortable  repose. 

All  Hungary  is  as  flat  as  our  prairies  and  almost  as 
fertile,  though  with  old-fashioned  farming  methods. 
I  was  fascinated  by  the  woolly  swine  —  with  black  or 
white  or  mixed  coats  of  sheep's  wool.  We  met  a 
drove  first  at  Vincovzce  (look  at  those  consonants!), 
where  we  took  a  cold,  dusty  walk  between  trains  under 
an  avenue  of  beautiful  flowering  horse  chestnuts. 
Later,  we  passed  through  whole  orchards  of  fruit 
blossoms,  like  a  snowstorm,  enchanting,  as  they  almost 
brushed  the  car  windows.  Only  the  Russian  or  Cyril- 
lic alphabet  is  used  in  these  parts,  so  you  haven't  the 
slightest  idea  what  any  sign  says  or  anything  is.  The 
calendar,  too,  is  thirteen  days  behind  ours.  But  the 
Hungarian  young  women  with  smooth  glossy  braids 
wound  over  each  ear  were  ahead  of  their  time,  19 19 
rather  than  1913,  and  as  comely  and  wholesome  a  lot 
as  well  could  be. 

What  interested  me  most  in  Belgrade  was  the  new 
palace  of  King  Peter,  the  still  newer  and  handsomer 
one  of  the  Crown  Prince,  and  the  eloquent  garden  be- 
tween the  two  —  all  that  is  left  of  the  old  palace,  de- 
molished by  the  Government,  after  the  furious  mob 
had  murdered  King  Alexander  and  Queen  Draga. 
Later,  we  visited  their  mausoleum,  with  the  two  crosses 
of  malleable  iron,  the  dead  Queen's  much  mutilated  by 
souvenir  hunters.  They  do  say  Draga  was  a  disrepu- 
table woman  who  had  gained  evil  ascendency  over  a 
weak  man. 

Sofia  proved  a  queer  mixture  of  the  Cross  and  the 
Crescent;  of  the  Russian  and  the  Turk,  which  in  a 


In  the  Balkans  "  Just  Before  the  War  "     199 

sense  makes  the  Bulgarian;  with  the  climate  of  Con- 
stantinople, whose  early  spring  I  remember  as  like 
New  York's  worst,  yet  at  moments  with  a  heavy  touch 
of  sun  —  and  over  all  the  shadow  of  War.  We  first 
felt  this  approaching  the  frontier  of  Serbia;  we  felt 
it  still  more  in  the  streets  of  Belgrade,  with  the  mili- 
tary everywhere,  not  on  parade  but  ready  for  action ; 
we  felt  it  keenly  as  our  train  pulled  out  of  Belgrade 
jammed  with  soldiers,  officers  in  the  first-class  of  the 
two  cars  next  the  engine,  every  seat  in  the  third-class 
occupied  by  the  men,  and  on  the  station  platform, 
drawn  in  regular  line,  a  string  of  youthful  veterans 
left  behind  —  saluting  their  officers  in  the  cars  as  they 
passed  by.  We  were  in  the  leading  car  and  saw  it 
all :  the  glory  of  the  officers,  returning  to  duty  at 
Adrianople;  the  respect  and  seeming  devotion  of  their 
men ;  the  privates  bidding  goodbye  to  their  own 
friends ;  a  mother  or  sister  or  sweetheart  here  and 
there  with  quivering  throat  and  tears  in  her  eyes. 

In  the  whole  crowded  train  was  not  one  woman ; 
nor  another,  except  the  maids,  in  the  Grand  Hotel  Bul- 
garie,  at  Sofia.  As  I  descended  the  stairs,  every  man 
stared,  whispered  to  his  neighbor  and  all  in  unison 
watched  my  progress;  and  didn't  I  thank  my  stars  that 
T  was  in  my  best,  from  hat  to  heel  —  with  a  scarlet 
Spanish  scarf  for  good  measure! 

As  we  emerged  from  the  tomb-like  hotel  into  the 
embrace  of  a  lover-like  sun,  for  the  first  time  I  realized 
that  our  street  looked  straight  up  to  a  glorious  moun- 
tain, blue  as  Bethlehem  below  its  glistening  cap  of 
snow.  It  was  Vitoscha,  and  only  a  few  miles  away. 
That    and    the    Royal    Palace    opposite    us,    with    a 


200  Within  My  Horizon 

public  park  near  by,  should  make  the  fortune  of  any 
hotel,  as  I  guess  it  did.  The  food  those  days  in  the 
hotels  and  stations  throughout  the  land  was  good,  but 
the  butter  was  questionable.  In  all  the  Slav  countries 
and  Austrian  provinces  we  passed  through  on  that 
memorable  journey,  they  did  not  serve  butter  at  all, 
unless  you  called  and  paid  for  it;  even  then  it  was 
white  and  lard-like,  buffalo  butter,  they  said;  and  I 
learned,  with  milk  scarce,  too,  to  drink  my  coffee  black, 
even  at  breakfast,  with  dry  rolls,  very  good  and  a 
little  sweet  —  though  I  preferred  salt,  as  you  will  see. 
At  India,  our  last  change  for  Belgrade,  I  indulged  in 
a  lone  kaffee-klatch,  wonderful  for  a  station.  On  the 
tray  there  was  no  cup,  only  one  little  pot  of  hot  cof- 
fee, another  of  whipped  cream,  a  glass  of  cold  water 
and  a  goblet.  When  I  looked  for  the  cup,  the  waiter 
pointed  to  the  goblet  and  put  a  spoon  in  it.  Such  a 
drink  as  that  was,  accompanied  by  a  small,  round, 
hard,  hot  biscuit,  dark  as  if  of  rye,  shortened  and 
heavily  salted.  It  was  a  cross  between  the  tea-biscuit 
of  America  and  pie-crust,  and  in  a  country  without 
good  butter  (though,  come  to  think  of  it,  that  might 
have  been  due  to  the  war)  the  salty  taste  with  the 
Vienna  coffee  was  so  refreshing  that  I  should  like  to 
go  back  to  India  for  that  refection  alone. 

The  only  thing  American  I  saw  in  Sofia,  except 
educational  institutions  and  an  occasional  official 
man  or  woman,  was  a  Standard  Oil  can  —  empty. 
Still,  with  all  its  foreign  oddities,  the  world  continued 
to  seem  small.  When  we  were  calling  on  a  lady  con- 
nected with  missionary  work  there,  the  name  of  Mrs. 
Charles  Lamson,  widow  of  the  late  president  of  the 


In  the  Balkans  "  Just  Before  the  War  "     201 

American  Board,  was  mentioned,  and  John  was  asked 
if  he  had  ever  met  her.  "  Often,"  he  replied.  "  She 
is  my  sister." 

It  is  a  Bulgarian  custom  towards  the  close  of  a  call 
to  offer  a  dessert-spoon  spilling  over  with  fruit  pre- 
serve on  a  glass  saucer,  with  water  in  a  silver  goblet, 
to  wash  down  the  cloying  sweet  in  one  mouthful.  The 
fruits  are  such  as  plums,  cherries,  peaches,  raspberries, 
melon-rinds,  and  in  one  instance  small  green  tomatoes, 
scarcely  larger  than  a  cherry,  which  turn  yellow  when 
ripe.  All  these  fruits,  for  the  attainment  of  firmness 
in  preserve,  are  soaked  for  an  hour  or  so  in  lime-water, 
then  stirred  into  hot  syrup  which  has  been  boiling  for 
a  long  time,  until  the  exact  honey-like  consistency  can 
be  obtained,  when  a  chemical,  locally  called  lemon 
salts,  is  stirred  in  at  the  last  to  keep  the  mixture  from 
sugaring.  In  this  housekeeper's  recipe,  which  pro- 
duces a  far  better  article  than  that  on  sale,  there  may 
be  a  hint  for  us.  The  green  tomatoes  I  tasted  at  the 
house  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Count,  our  own  representatives 
in  Bulgaria  at  the  time  and  for  years  before,  and  like 
a  refreshing  breeze  from  America  in  their  cordiality 
did  they  seem,  as  well  as  a  mine  of  information;  while 
the  raspberries  were  offered  me  in  the  home  of  a  true 
Bulgarian,  wife  of  Constantine  Stephanove,  the  dis- 
tinguished patriot  and  Macedonian  who,  in  a  literary 
and  political  way,  though  a  nationalized  American 
citizen,  and  an  ardent  believer  in  our  principles,  is  do- 
ing great  things  for  his  native  land  —  as  his  wife  is 
heart  and  soul  with  him  in  righting  Bulgaria's  wrongs. 

Those  mountain  raspberries,  small  and  of  a  won- 
derful color  and  flavor,  keeping  their  shape  perfectly, 


202  Within  My  Horizon 

as  well  as  their  wild,  vivid,  spicy  tang,  I  never  can  for- 
get. Bulgaria  also,  as  you  may  know,  is  noted  for  its 
roses,  which  in  summer  spread  over  the  land  like  wheat, 
and  produce  an  attar  beyond  compare.  The  blossom 
is  similar  to  our  cinnamon  rose,  half  double,  the  oil 
at  its  heart  and,  covering  acre  upon  acre,  its  scent  can 
be  detected  miles  away. 

From  its  higher  men  and  women,  the  men  sober  and 
strong,  the  women  virtuous,  well-informed  and  pas- 
sionately religious,  down  to  its  loyal  peasantry,  hard 
at  work  raising  cereals,  and  children  too,  with  church, 
the  market  and  Oriental  embroidering  the  sole  relaxa- 
tion, Bulgaria  is  as  much  superior  to  Roumania,  so 
light  and  fickle,  so  heedless  of  moral  claims  and  obli- 
gations, with  all  her  artistic  gifts,  as  is  Roumania  in 
her  turn  to  half-savage  Serbia — despite  certain  pre- 
conceptions in  America  to  the  contrary.  The  Balkan 
States  should  be,  like  our  United  States,  one  and  indi- 
visible, but  the  eternal  meddling  of  the  Powers  forbids 
—  they  will  not  stand  for  it. 

The  key  to  these  Eastern  peoples  I  seemed  to  find 
later  at  Budapest  when,  wandering  into  the  majestic 
church  of  Saint  Stephen,  we  found  ourselves  swept 
away  by  the  cyclonic  breath  of  a  full  military  High 
Mass.  First  the  priest  would  chant  a  bit  of  the  serv- 
ice, then  the  drums  would  rattle,  the  orchestra  intone, 
and  out  of  the  rich  chaos  of  it  all  would  rise  the  sweet 
clear  voices  of  the  boy  soprano  choir,  lifting  to  heaven 
with  ardor  the  supplication  of  their  song,  while  now 
and  then  the  riper  art  of  a  glorious  baritone  would 
sound  a  deeper  note.  The  combination  of  the  venera- 
ble prelate's  drone,  the  singing  of  the  youthful  devo- 


In  the  Balkans  "  Just  Before  the  War  "     203 

tees,  quickened  by  the  skill  of  the  older  artist,  the  wild 
splendor  of  the  military  band,  beneath  which  the  giant 
organ  throbbed  out  its  profound  meaning,  was  inde- 
scribably affecting  —  an  expression  of  the  mingling  of 
races  more  or  less  akin,  Turk,  Slav,  Austrian,  Magyar, 
under  the  emotional  control  of  music  and  God;  held 
together,  as  it  seemed,  all  that  turbulence,  by  the  two 
most  powerful  impulses  of  the  human  heart,  outside 
that  which  carries  on  the  torch  of  Life  —  those  that 
respond  to  Religion  and  War. 


XXVIII 

PICKING    UP    LOST    THREADS 

By  the  fall  of  1915,  with  the  war  in  full  force,  I 
was  glad  to  stay  at  home.  I  expected  to  travel  no 
more.  Before  I  opened  a  letter  from  Zona  Gale,  one 
day  late  in  September,  I  had  not  one  idea  of  attending 
the  San  Francisco  Fair :  I  was  brought  to  it  solely  by 
her  alluring  description,  which  instantly  I  spread, 
through  the  Standard  Union,  and  the  fifth  of  my  six 
German  pamphlets,  far  and  wide.  Meantime,  1 
snatched  a  bag,  a  maid  and  a  train  before  the  vision 
should  vanish;  and  the  surprise  of  my  life  was  that  the 
dream  came  true.  I  shall  never  forget  my  first  vivid 
impression,  in  the  early  evening,  of  the  ethereal  Guerin 
towers,  one  sparkling  with  jewels,  and  the  richly  dim 
medieval  Mulghardt  revival  a  little  in  the  rear,  each 
a  pure  carnation  red  glowing  as  through  alabaster ; 
when  into  the  huge  domes,  one  the  largest  in  the  world, 
crept  the  same  unearthly  fire ;  and  at  last  the  illusion 
of  enormous  folds  of  cloth,  in  dark,  exotic  hues,  alien 
browns,  reds,  greens,  purples,  like  a  weird  aurora 
borealis,  spread  from  zenith  to  horizon  —  an  utterly 
novel  phase  of  form  and  color,  insubstantial  as  dream, 
yet  in  appearance  as  solid  as  the  earth  on  which  we 
trod.  Not  exactly  beautiful,  these  great  night  passion 
flowers,    but    strange,    provocative,    overpowering  — 

204 


Picking  Up  Lost  Threads  205 

hinting  of  a  deeper,  simpler,  more  ardent  life  and 
world. 

When  I  started  for  the  Fair,  it  was  not  that  alone 
I  meant  to  see,  though  it  was  the  moving  impulse.  In 
my  five  trips  across  the  continent  I  had  always  missed 
three  wonders  of  the  world:  the  Yosemite,  the  Grand 
Canyon,  and  the  Canadian  Rockies ;  and  these  I  now 
determined  to  achieve.  I  had  missed  other  big  things 
besides,  of  course,  but  these  were  all  I  violently  craved. 
The  Yosemite,  that  fairy  valley  with  a  horizon  3,000 
feet  high,  and  the  Big  Trees  on  the  glorious  new 
Triangle  drive,  I  especially  desired.  It  is  only  in  the 
still  fastnesses  of  the  Tuolumne  Forest  that  the  Yose- 
mite redwood  monarchs  grow.  On  the  floor  of  the 
Valley,  though  4,000  feet  above  the  sea,  where  superb 
sequoias  flourish,  there  is  not  one.  The  redwood, 
with  its  feathery  leaves  of  prickly  green,  is  always  a 
king  on  a  high,  isolated  throne.  Ageless,  eternal,  they 
are  the  same  now,  as  wild  and  free,  as  in  the  reptilian 
period  —  these  solemn  survivals  of  the  earth's  dim 
past.  Over  all  is  that  hush  which  must  have  been 
when  the  earth  was  young,  and  the  waters  had  receded 
from  the  high  places,  and  man  was  not. 

The  Grand  Canyon  of  the  Colorado  proved  so  ex- 
traordinary, as  indeed  did  the  whole  experience,  that 
when  I  came  home  I  sent  my  friend,  Flora  Field,  then 
of  the  Xew  Orleans  Times  Picayune,  now  a  story  writer 
of  growing  repute,  whose  piercing  wails  for' a  snatch 
of  this  beauty  could  be  heard  country-wide,  over  much 
the  same  ground,  catching  the  Fair  the  week  before  it 
died,  and  here  is  her  fine  picture  of  the  Canyon,  that 
eichth  wonder  of  the  world: 


206  Within  My  Horizon 

It  is  the  beauty  of  life  and  the  soul  of  death.  It  is  the 
silence  of  aeons  into  which  you  look  —  it  is  Silence's  self, 
delicate  as  a  flower,  vast  as  death.  Out  of  a  thousand  square 
miles  under  your  gaze,  from  the  soft  splash  of  sapphire 
chasms  rises  a  world  of  crumpled  rose  and  gold  and  violet 
in  which  no  thought  dreams;  an  inferno  it  has  been  called 
—  yet  spectral  as  a  vision.  Like  a  lost  bird  your  imagination 
flutters  over  the  immensity  —  attempts  to  soar  along  such 
wonder  for  200  miles,  then  sinks  beaten  into  the  changeless 
change.  Miles  away  the  thread  of  the  Colorado  shows 
amber  with  its  churn  of  rocks  and  earth.  So  the  work  of 
erosion  goes  on.  .  .  .  An  infinite  solitude  is  upon  you  — 
always  back  you  are  drawn  to  look  over  that  edge  into  the 
shifting  beauty  of  life  that  lives  yet  does  not  breathe.  .  .  . 
Evening  comes,  the  sapphire  shadows  slip  into  deeper  clefts; 
the  rose  dies,  becomes  ashes  of  rose ;  light  fades  first  on  this 
age,  then  on  that  —  and  it  is  the  dusk  of  the  gods. 

Two  full  days  of  this,  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  leaves 
one  not  quite  the  same.  It  is  a  novel,  a  profound  ex- 
perience, this  intimacy  with  a  world  in  the  making. 
Simply  to  gaze  from  El  Tovar  to  the  opposite  rim,  so 
few  and  yet  so  many  miles  away,  evokes  dream ;  for 
there  lies  Asia,  and  a  bit  of  Africa,  in  lofty  mosques, 
temples  and  pyramids,  with  multitudes  at  prayer  — 
no  less  true  because  eyes  cannot  see  the  swaying,  pray- 
ing sea  of  heads  within  structures  which  even  Thomas 
could  not  doubt:  the  work,  century  upon  century,  of 
wind  and  water,  the  slow  siege  of  water,  the  furious 
onslaught  of  wind,  until  the  very  rocks  gave  way,  the 
continent  was  rent  and  the  passionate  flood  at  last 
found  calm  in  union  with  the  sea. 

At  the  little  station  of  Sisson,  California,  in  the 
deep  of  a  moonlight  night,  I  discovered  a  great  snow 
mountain,  only  twelve  miles  away,  leonine  in  shape, 


Picking  Up  Lost  Threads  207 

milk-white  from  base  to  summit,  which  was  Shasta; 
and  from  the  comfort  of  my  pillows  I  watched  it  play 
hide-and-seek  with  the  rushing  train  until  the  skies 
reddened  as  from  a  conflagration,  the  dawn  came  on 
and  like  Brunnhilde  in  her  fire-girt  slumber  the  moun- 
tain roused  to  the  ardor  of  the  sun.  Wagner  comes 
so  often  into  these  unusual  scenes.  In  the  Grand  Can- 
yon we  found  Rheingold  and  Walhalla ;  at  the  Yo- 
semite  the  sequoia  growing  through  the  ceiling  recalled 
Hunding's  hut  in  "Walkure";  Siegfried,  with  his 
eternal  youth,  darts  everywhere  in  this  new  land ;  while 
Canada's  dark  forests  know  well  the  ominous  calm,  the 
slow,  solemn  beat,  the  wild  resounding  agony  of  that 
impassioned  threnody  which  is  the  transcendent  climax 
and  close  of  "  Gotterdammerung." 

Homeward  bound  on  the  Canadian  Pacific  I  picked 
up  the  last  dropped  stitch.  Yet  the  Canadian  Rockies 
were  a  disappointment  rather  than  a  delight.  After 
the  Andes,  which  they  imitate  but  never  equal,  they 
seem  tame.  What  caught  my  eye  and  still  haunts  my 
mind  were  not  the  much-exploited  mountains,  but  the 
great  wondrous  unbroken  wilderness  that  clothes  their 
flanks.  Below  the  snow  peak,  with  its  hanging  chryso- 
litic  glacier,  below  the  rough,  repellent  rocks,  came 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  like  armies  of  the  gods  in  massed 
formation,  endless  forests  of  the  pointed  fir.  Now, 
even  in  a  garden  a  pointed  fir  is  eloquent ;  so  think 
what  millions  of  them  must  mean,  wild  and  free  in 
that  magnificent  solitude,  singing  to  heaven  their  glo- 
rious eternal  song ! 

As  I  stood  above  Kicking  Horse  Pass,  still  a  lonely, 
impressive,  evergreen-lined  ravine,  and  gazed  for  the 


208  Within  My  Horizon 

last  time  on  those  ugly,  concrete,  cyclopean  mounds 
and  masses  which  make  up  the  Canadian  Rockies,  I 
recalled  Whymper's  remark,  that  here  were  fifty 
Switzerlands  rolled  into  one.  Yes,  and  you  would 
not  give  the  Jungfrau,  the  Matterhorn,  Lake  Lucerne, 
or  even  that  far  line  of  silver  beheld  from  Bellagio 
on  Lake  Como,  for  the  whole  of  them.  For  you  love 
Switzerland,  while  for  these  excrescences  you  get  no 
further  than  respect  —  and  respect  is  a  mighty  cold 
proposition  to  live  with. 

Then,  too,  you  have  to  take  them  along  with  the 
British  menu:  too  much  meat,  chilly  breakfasts,  exe- 
crable coffee  —  how  could  England  win  this  war  when 
after  a  thousand  years  she  has  not  even  learned  to 
cook! 


XXIX 

A   DAINTY   VAGRANT 

My  first  interview  with  Ingomar  was  in  the  nature 
of  a  surprise.  At  least  it  was  to  me ;  but  I  suspect  that 
with  him  it  was  the  result  of  a  carefully  laid  plan  — 
his  shrewd  little  cat  head  must  have  told  him  that  the 
mistress  of  that  particular  brownstone  front  was  pe- 
culiarly susceptible  to  feline  charms.  Never  is  she 
able  to  resist  the  lovely  curves,  the  furry  warmth,  the 
rich,  delicious  purr,  the  winning  ways  of  this  domesti- 
cated offshoot  of  the  panther  family.  Still,  a  pet  in 
the  country  is  one  thing,  a  vagrant  of  the  city  quite 
another ;  but  Ingomar  took  his  chances,  and  like  all 
the  brave  conquered  the  fair. 

It  was  one  of  those  mornings  in  early  May,  so  in- 
describably luminous,  balmy  and  fragrant  even  in 
town  ;  the  kind  of  morning  to  inspire  man  to  grow  new 
wings  in  the  struggle  for  existence  —  to  cause  hope 
to  spring  up  in  the  breast  of  despair.  I  stepped  from 
the  library  into  the  drawing-room  to  let  the  sunshine  in, 
when  out  of  the  murky  depths  softly  towards  me  crept 
a  dark  object,  conspicuously  heralded  by  a  patch  of 
white. 

My  amazement  knew  no  bounds.  Pussy's  faith  in 
me  knew  no  bounds  either.  On  and  on  he  came,  with 
noiseless,  deprecating  tread  and  head  lowered  as  if  to 
receive  just  punishment,  vet  with  a  tender  confidence 

209 


210  Within  My  Horizon 

in  his  eyes  which  would  have  melted  the  heart  of  a 
graven  image.  And  when  a  beautiful,  helpless  animal 
is  in  question,  I  am  no  graven  image. 

A  beautiful  creature  indeed,  with  a  fine  maltese  coat 
stretching  from  his  eyes  to  the  tip  of  his  tail,  while 
behind  the  ears  were  five  regular  black  stripes,  forming 
a  little  head-dress  not  unlike  that  worn  by  Juliet  in 
the  play.  Now  and  then,  in  effective  places,  these 
stripes  were  repeated,  giving  a  still  deeper  tone  to  the 
dark  gray  coat.  The  paws  were  covered  with  white 
mittens,  the  little  terra-cotta  nose  rose  out  of  a  bed  of 
purest  white,  and  under  the  chin  was  a  snow-white 
collar  as  perfect  as  if  made  to  order.  The  lovely 
gray-green  eyes  shone  with  an  expression  animal  rather 
than  human  only  in  its  deeper  faith  and  gratitude. 

For  I  had  taken  the  pretty  thing  in  my  arms,  and 
was  loath  to  let  him  go.  He  curled  up  into  a  soft  ball, 
and  gently  pressed  me  with  his  paws  of  velvet,  while 
his  whole  being  trembled  with  the  ardor  of  his  happy 
purr.  But  alas,  the  street  was  his  home,  and  to  it  he 
returned.  A  week  or  »o  later,  as  we  sat  at  dinner  we 
heard  a  plaintive  wail.  It  was  not  the  rasping  miouw 
of  the  ordinary  cat,  but  a  gently  importunate  appeal. 
At  the  same  moment  I  recognized  the  wonderful  white 
collar  pressed  against  the  window-pane.  He  was  let 
in  and  ran  straight  to  me,  the  joy  of  recognition  shining 
in  his  eyes.  I  offered  him  something  to  eat,  but  he 
passed  by  the  food  to  rub  against  the  hand  that  held 
it.  It  was  then  I  said,  though  an  unsympathetic  audi- 
ence laughed :  "  It's  not  meat  he  wants  but  human 
affection." 

In  the  strength  of  his  attachments  he  was  like  a  dog. 


A  Dainty  Vagrant  211 

He  would  spring  a  foot  from  the  floor  to  receive  a 
caress,  and  if  I  crouched  to  talk  with  him,  directly 
he  would  creep  into  my  arms.  Once  in  a  while  he 
would  lap  my  hand  or  face,  not  the  most  agreeable  of 
attentions,  but  unmistakably  sincere.  After  that  eve- 
ning he  came  quite  often.  While  he  evidently  be- 
longed to  nobody,  he  affected  our  neighborhood,  per- 
haps because  of  the  noble  maples  which  at  that  time 
made  Carlton  Avenue  almost  like  a  village  street. 
This  extensive  greenery  may  have  reminded  Ingomar 
of  some  happier  country  home.  Though  a  street  cat, 
he  was  nice  in  his  habits,  keeping  his  fur  clean  and 
glossy,  and  in  many  ways  manifesting  self-respect. 
His  beauty  indicated  gentle  blood,  and  his  manners 
that  he  was  once  somebody's  pet  —  for  blood  and 
training  will  tell,  you  know. 

The  most  trivial  things,  like  pulling  an  oyster  out  of 
a  bowl  by  means  of  his  pretty  paws,  was  full  of  grace 
and  purpose.  In  fact  he  possessed  the  qualities  which 
among  men  command  success.  He  neither  wasted 
himself  in  fruitless  endeavor  nor  did  he  fall  into  the 
mistake  of  retreat.  And  his  delicacy  in  the  acceptance 
of  our  hospitality  was  an  example  to  women  and  men. 
He  showed  plainly  that  it  was  ourselves  he  craved 
rather  than  our  bed  and  board.  Never  once  did  he 
make  a  convenience  of  us. 

Ingomar  stood  by  us  throughout  the  summer.  He 
observed  the  exodus  that  takes  place  when  the  sun  is 
high,  and  profited  by  our  annual  conclusion  that  sea- 
blown  Brooklyn,  freed  of  fashion  and  crowds,  is  about 
as  comfortable  a  summer-resort  as  can  lie  found  — 
surelv  so  if  you  own  an  airy,  vine-covered,  tree-shade! 


212  Within  My  Horizon 

home.  But  in  September,  when  the  town  begins  to  fill 
up  again,  we  find  our  way  to  the  woods.  All  through 
the  autumn  days  the  lakes,  the  leaves,  the  everlasting 
hills  are  at  their  best  —  with  the  herd  far  away  and 
God  very  near.  The  tints  are  maddening,  the  air  like 
fine  wine,  the  peace  profound.  It  is  with  laggard 
steps  that  we  leave  it  all  behind. 

Ingomar  disappeared  soon  after  our  exit.  Weeks 
passed  without  a  glimpse  of  him.  In  fact  we  had 
quite  given  him  up,  when  on  a  bleak  November  after- 
noon, as  I  opened  the  door,  he  rushed  up  the  steps  and 
into  the  hall.  He  was  so  changed  that  I  scarcely  knew 
him,  with  fur  soiled  and  torn,  eyes  strained  and  watery, 
and  one  long  tooth  gone.  The  small  boy  had  done 
his  deadly  work.  One  of  them  chased  the  cat  into  the 
house  and  that  is  how  I  found  out.  At  the  sight  of 
the  boy  Ingomar  became  frantic  and  fought  like  a  tiger 
—  our  once  gentle  pussy.  The  young  tormentor 
howled  to  heaven  as  he  felt  the  claws,  while  I  strove 
to  rescue  the  cat.  But  the  animal  was  seeing  red  that 
day  and  flew  out  as  fast  as  he  flew  in. 

The  seasons  came  and  went.  I  thought  of  him 
often,  but  as  we  think  of  the  dead.  How  I  regretted 
that  my  last  sight  of  him  could  not  have  been  sweeter, 
as  we  regret  that  the  tender  memory  of  our  dear 
one  should  be  marred  by  the  set  face  in  the  coffin. 
Always  before  me  rose  that  torn  coat,  those  distorted 
eyes. 

It  was  fully  a  year  from  that  dreadful  day.  The 
small  boy  had  disappeared  from  our  neighborhood,  to 
tease  cats  and  shatter  glass  in  a  more  congenial  clime. 


A  Dainty  Vagrant  213 

Again  it  was  November.  The  gas  was  lighted  and  the 
shades  half  drawn.  Somebody  called  attention  to 
the  persistent  mewing  of  a  cat.  I  looked  up  and  caught 
a  glimpse  of  white  fur. 

You  may  smile,  but  my  heart  leaped.  A  friend, 
even  a  cat  friend,  is  not  made  every  day.  I  had  missed 
Ingomar  more  than  I  cared  to  confess.  He  bounded 
into  my  arms;  rushed  to  each  member  of  the  family 
and  gave  effusive  greeting;  finally  rubbed  against  fur- 
niture in  lieu  of  human  beings.  Not  only  did  he  re- 
member us  but  he  talked  to  us  in  the  same  old  way  — 
a  sort  of  chirrup  we  were  at  no  loss  to  understand. 
Then,  with  greetings  well  over,  he  threw  himself  full 
length  on  the  rug,  his  little  white  mittens  pawing  the 
air,  his  eyes  swimming  with  joy.  How  I  wished  he 
could  really  talk  and  tell  us  of  his  travels  since  last  he 
fled  from  us  in  a  delirium  of  terror.  What  adven- 
tures must  have  been  his,  what  battles  for  life,  what 
narrow  escapes,  what  thrilling  victories !  The  wisdom 
learned  in  the  hard  school  of  experience  shone  out  of 
his  intelligent  eyes,  but  could  not  come  forth  from  his 
poor  dumb  lips.  Strange  how  the  privilege  possessed 
by  the  veriest  fool  should  be  denied  to  the  noblest  beast. 
Yet  is  it  not  a  pitfall  rather  than  a  blessing  to  be  able 
to  dissipate  our  feelings  through  unnecessary  words? 

This  time  Ingomar  had  come  to  stay.  Nothing 
could  tempt  him  into  the  street.  Even  the  sight  of  it 
would  excite  him  disastrously.  When  I  first  took  him 
to  the  front  windows,  he  sprang  from  me  and  sought 
the  farthest  corner,  lowering  his  head  and  closing  his 
eyes  as  if  for  a  blow  —  that  attitude  which  so  delights 
the  cruel  small  boy  and  so  appeals  to  one  of  greater 


214  Within  My  Horizon 

years  and  warmer  feelings.  In  time  he  was  willing 
to  look  out  safely  sheltered  in  my  arms,  but  his  little 
heart  would  beat  fast.  He  had  learned  his  lesson 
well. 

Of  course  we  spoiled  him,  as  women  will,  and  what 
at  first  he  was  grateful  for  as  a  privilege  eventually  he 
demanded  as  a  right.  But  there  was  one  who  never 
cared  for  him,  who  ignored  him  completely  —  the  mas- 
ter. When  Ingomar  observed  this,  he  seemed  thought- 
ful and  oppressed ;  he  would  leave  his  slaves  at  any 
moment  to  haggle  for  the  notice  of  the  one  who  loved 
him  not  —  but  to  no  avail.  All  the  beauties  of  his 
coat,  collar  and  mittens,  all  his  rare  curves  and  grace- 
ful ways,  he  displayed  in  vain.  He  purred  and  chir- 
ruped so  seductively,  he  rolled  himself  into  a  soft,  in- 
ert, delicious  mass  on  the  master's  very  knees  —  only 
to  be  betrayed ;  something  very  like  a  slap  would  send 
him  flying  to  the  floor.  Yet  he  cared  more  for  the 
fleeting  touch  of  a  finger  from  the  one  who  was  so 
difficult  than  for  all  the  love  accorded  without  stint. 
For  thus  is  constituted  the  masculine  heart. 

As  the  spring  came  on,  he  manifested  a  provoking 
tendency  to  disappear  for  a  day  or  two  at  a  time  over 
the  back  fence.  The  blocks  in  our  rear  are  so  long  that 
the  enclosures,  each  with  its  own  tree  or  flower  or  vine, 
look  more  like  a  park  than  a  collection  of  prosaic  back- 
yards, and  within  this  enchanted  quadrangle,  espe- 
cially in  cherry-blossom  time,  Ingomar  would  roam  at 
his  own  sweet  will,  coming  home  much  the  worse  for 
wear. 

But  he  was  not  to  delight  us  with  his  very  human 
ways  for  long.     It  is  the  boon  or  the  bane  of  animal 


A  Dainty  Vagrant  215 

life  that  it  is  short.  First  came  a  little  cough,  then  a 
disinclination  for  food,  accompanied  by  extreme  lassi- 
tude. No  longer  did  he  bid-  for  our  attention  with  his 
agile  movements,  but  would  lie  for  hours  in  one  spot, 
thinking  unutterable  things  —  for  I  doubt  not  he  knew 
that  he  was  going  to  die.  Just  as  he  had  reached  a 
haven  of  rest,  he  was  to  be  seized  by  a  power  greater 
even  than  the  pitiless  small  boy,  and  be  hurled  into  the 
awful  unknown. 

Certainly  the  cat  seemed  wrapped  in  a  profound 
melancholy,  searching  our  eyes  with  an  appeal  it  was 
difficult  to  meet.  The  physician  knows  well  what  this 
look  means.     It  is  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

When  Ingomar  stayed  out  in  a  long  rain,  heedless 
of  the  wet,  so  distasteful  to  all  cats,  I  knew  he  was 
doomed.  The  next  day,  one  of  those  April  wonders 
which  bear  within  their  deceptive  warmth  all  the  lan- 
guorous beauty  of  the  heart  of  June,  the  end  came. 
In  the  full  blaze  of  the  sun,  upon  a  bed  of  hyacinths 
already  exhaling  sweet  perfume,  with  his  paws  folded 
under  him  in  what  we  used  to  call  his  attitude  of 
prayer,  our  pet  passed  away. 

There  can  be  a  solemnity,  a  deep  sense  of  loss,  even 
in  the  death  of  a  cat.  Love  is  a  strange  thing.  The 
most  brilliant  mind  may  leave  one  cold  while  a  help- 
less animal  nestles  close  to  the  heart. 


XXX 

GRAND    OPERA 

Music  has  meant  much  to  me  as  the  most  poignant 
emotional  response  to  the  human  soul ;  but  it  also  has 
meant  much  to  me  practically  —  my  reviews  of  grand 
opera,  as  I  have  said,  brought  me  that  confidence  with 
the  pen  which  led  to  larger  things.  While  the  creature 
of  a  day,  my  writing  was  not  all  loss ;  it  excited  a  little 
attention  now  and  then,  and  some  said  it  was  "  alive  " : 
that  I  could  make  people  see  what  I  saw  and  feel  what 
I  felt.  But  I  knew  not  the  tonic  of  any  discipline  save 
my  own  —  which,  needless  to  say,  was  not  severe.  I 
was  not  idle,  but  it  requires  ceaseless  toil  to  make  the 
artist  —  added  to  what  the  Lord  himself  sees  fit  to 
bestow.  Even  as  to  music  I  followed  my  own  inclina- 
tions :  I  did  not  impose  my  will  upon  myself  enough  to 
try  to  like  what  did  not  appeal  to  me  —  first  impres- 
sions with  me,  as  to  people  and  things,  are  vivid  and 
almost  invariably  final.  If  I  do  not  care  for  a  person 
or  picture  or  play  at  once  I  rarely  do  at  all;  and  if  I 
do  care,  I  find  that  in  the  long  run,  even  with  a  setback 
now  and  then,  there  is  some  vital  reason  why. 

Soon  after  reaching  New  York,  I  abandoned  the 
concerts  I  had  never  loved,  but  to  which  in  a  small 
world  I  had  practically  been  confined,  and  rushed  into 
opera  as  a  horse  into  the  race.     The  concert  stage  has 

216 


Grand  Opera  217 

no  magnetism  for  me  —  it  seems  cold  and  forbidding. 
Its  glaring  lights  I  particularly  detest.  Wondrous 
symphonies,  such  as  Beethoven's  Eroica  or  Tschai- 
kowsky's  heart-rending  Pathetique,  not  less  than  music 
dramas  and  all  romantic  harmonies,  should  be  listened 
to  in  the  dark.  It  is  only  then  that  we  learn  the  full 
meaning  of  them  —  when  we  and  the  subject,  left 
alone  together,  can  become  one.  When  he  ordered 
lights  out,  Wagner  knew  what  he  was  about ;  he  under- 
stood as  few  others  the  psychic  value  of  the  gloaming. 
As  a  road  to  the  emotions  there  is  nothing  like  it  in 
music  or  in  love.  He  also  knew  what  he  was  about 
when  he  rested  his  whole  system  on  the  orchestra. 
For  the  full  orchestra  more  than  for  any  singer  would 
I  pawn  my  treasures.  On  the  contrary,  the  ballet 
means  less  to  me  than  its  reigning  kings  and  queens. 
The  ballet  gives  color,  creates  atmosphere,  but  it  is  not 
superior  to  the  individual  —  to  the  wonder  of  a  Pav- 
lowa,  a  Mordkin,  a  Bonfiglio,  a  Rosina  Galli.  While 
the  ballet  intensifies  emotion,  the  orchestra  is  emotion 
itself.  Beside  the  tumultuous  passion  of  those  hun- 
dred men,  how  dare  the  greatest  diva  of  her  time  con- 
sider herself  indispensable? 

Yet  out  of  many  well-received  operas,  comparatively 
few  have  the  power  to  stir  me.  "  Boris  Godunoff," 
though  a  new-comer,  has  this  to  the  full.  In  its  melan- 
choly choral  splendor,  as  in  the  pictorial  grandeur  of 
its  Kremlin,  its  churches,  convents  and  palace  halls, 
that  marvelous  set  of  unwanted  scenes  which  Gatti- 
Cassaza  bought  in  Paris  for  a  song,  the  very  aspect  of 
it  is  unusual,  setting  the  music  aside.  Yet  the  music, 
a  true  cry  from  the  East,  from  the  land  of  the  Slav, 


218  Within  My  Horizon 

is  in  itself  a  wondrously  eloquent  thing.  From  that 
Russia  which  still  lives,  though  under  a  dark  and  lower- 
ing cloud,  the  piercing  wail  of  millions  of  suffering 
souls  rises  to  heaven  from  a  strange  folk  choir  express- 
ing an  infinitude  of  burden  and  sorrow,  and  this  from 
Moussorgsky  who,  like  the  unhappy  Dostoyevsky, 
was  one  of  them.  Chorus  and  orchestra  unite  to  voice 
a  pitiful,  a  supremely  tragic  aspect  of  mankind,  one  that 
has  known  cold,  hunger,  thirst  and  the  waste  places  — 
has,  in  short,  been  deprived  perpetually  of  its  just  in- 
heritance. That  a  people  like  a  person  may  learn  and 
grow  through  trial  is  beside  the  point.  The  immediate 
impression  is  one  of  endless  pain,  of  dark  despair. 
How  that  woe  penetrates,  how  it  wrings  the  heart, 
while  the  stricken  crowd  laments  and  sings  as  before  an 
open  grave : 

Why  dost  thou  abandon  us  .  .  . 

O  Father! 
Here  we  implore  thee  .  .  . 

Good  Father ! 
Deign  to  hear  our  sobs  .  .  . 

O  Father  ! 
Mercy !     Mercy !     Good    Father  .  .  . 

O  Father! 

But  grand  opera  is  not  all  acute  distress,  though  the 
best  of  it  is  sad.  The  great  composers  do  not  provoke 
laughter  —  hardly  smiles :  they  fill  you  with  remem- 
brance or  longing.  In  this  category  may  be  placed 
those  beloved  relics  of  the  past,  Weber's  "  Oberon  " 
or  "  Euryanthe,"  splendidly  revived,  and  the  great 
melodic  Verdi  in  his  immortal  "  Rigoletto,"  "  Trova- 


Grand  Opera  219 

tore,"  "  Aida,"  and  in  1918,  for  the  first  time  at  the 
Metropolitan,  "  Forza  del  Destino,"  with  Rosa  Ponselle 
in  her  meteoric  debut;  Donizetti's  "Lucia,"  deep  trag- 
edy, when  well  done,  not  less  than  sweetest  song; 
Gounod's  undying  "  Faust  " ;  Bizet's  all-human  "  Car- 
men " ;  the  tempestuous  Cavalleria-Pagliacci  twins, 
royal  melody  in  spite  of  their  modernity, —  these  hold 
us  under  a  sway  entirely  absent  from  many  of  more 
recent  vintage,  not  to  forget  the  oldest  of  them  all, 
that  ancient  wonder  in  a  new  dress,  Gluck's  "  Orfeo," 
given  so  beautifully  just  before  the  war,  with  our  own 
Louise  Homer  far  excelling  the  French  Delna  as  the 
Orpheus  who  weeps  inconsolably  beside  the  bier  of  his 
beloved  Eurydice  in  that  mournful  opening  number 
where  the  hand-maidens  chant  their  solemn  requiem 
beneath  the  dark  firs  against  a  setting  sun. 

"  Tosca,"  despite  the  touching  story  and  rich  or- 
chestration of  "  Butterfly,"  is  the  best  thing  Puccini 
has  done.  Of  Scotti's  Scarpia  I  never  tire:  the  ele- 
gant sybarite,  with  his  women,  his  perfumes,  his  wines; 
the  man  of  the  world,  in  his  faultless  courtesy  and  cold 
intent;  the  high,  complex  official,  hard  on  his  men  yet 
humble  before  his  God  —  the  Scarpia  of  Scotti  lives 
as  truly  as  any  figure  in  history.  When  in  the  Cathe- 
dral Emma  Eames  dropped  her  tall  stick,  the  first  time 
I  think  accidentally,  with  what  exquisite  deference  did 
he  restore  it  to  her!  That  perfect  gallantry  he  no 
longer  uses  with  Farrar,  nor  was  he  so  brutal  in  his 
unwelcome  love-making  to  the  greater  woman  of  the 
world  —  or  at  least  so  it  seems  to  me.  When  Scotti 
offered  the  cane  to  Mine.  Eames  (at  that  moment,  not 
long  before  her  Farewell,  doing  the  best  acting  of  her 


220  Within  My  Horizon 

career,  because  at  last  she  was  truly  in  love,  with  the 
glorious  barytone  De  Gorgorza,  whose  name  she  now 
bears),  into  the  eyes  of  the  impressionable  young 
matron  at  my  side  suddenly  flashed  a  significant  light 
as  she  whispered  nervously :  "  He  can  have  me." 
Wickedness  never  appalls  a  woman,  you  know,  if  the 
deportment  is  correct  and  the  man  compelling. 

Then  the  music  of  "  Tosca  " !  When  all  is  said,  it 
is  the  music,  the  music  of  any  opera,  that  sets  hearts 
going  —  not  the  mere  dramatic  clash  of  human  wills; 
though  in  Montemezzi's  "  Three  Kings,"  as  in  De- 
bussy's "  Melisande,"  both  music  and  drama  meet  in 
high  poetic  degree  —  the  degree  that  leaves  you  a  nerv- 
ous wreck  when  all  is  over.  "  Tosca's  "  music  in  the 
opening  scene  is  splendid  from  beginning  to  end ;  from 
the  turbulent  passion  of  the  lovers,  contrasting  vio- 
lently with  the  Commandante's  sinister  designs,  to  that 
tremendous  finale,  one  of  the  most  impressive  in  all 
opera,  when  the  stream  of  church  dignitaries,  cardinals, 
bishops,  archbishops,  priests,  acolytes,  soldiers,  pass 
endlessly  the  great  altar  of  the  Cathedral  whose  vast 
spaces  speak  eternally  of  eternal  Rome,  while  Scarpia 
and  the  populace  fall  upon  their  knees  and  unite  with 
organ,  orchestra,  church  bells,  cannon  and  drums  in 
raising  their  lusty  voices  to  God.  Then  the  last  act, 
beautiful  in  an  entirely  different  way,  as  Mr.  Finck  of 
the  Evening  Post  so  well  expresses  it :  "  Puccini's 
best  act  was  the  third  of  '  Tosca,'  written  in  the  white 
heat  of  inspiration.  There  are  two  fine  vocal  numbers, 
but  the  chief  charm  lies  in  the  orchestral  coloring, 
which  presents  a  mood  picture  unequalled  in  any  other 
Italian  opera.     The  sentinel  walking  up  and  down  the 


Grand  Opera  221 

terrace  overlooking  Rome,  with  St.  Peter's  in  the  cen- 
tre; the  Italian  flag  fluttering  in  the  gentle  breeze;  the 
clanging  of  many  church  bells  mingling  with  the  calm 
yet  richly  colored  orchestral  sounds;  the  marvelously 
beautiful  quartet  of  violoncellos,  rivalling  the  famous 
'cello  quintet  in  the  first  act  of  Wagner's  '  Walkure  ' — 
these  and  other  things  unite  into  a  scenic  tone-poem  of 
overwhelming  fascination." 

Nothing  else  that  Massenet  has  composed  compares 
to  "  Thais."  In  the  first  place,  the  libretto  is  remark- 
ably good,  the  story  by  Anatole  France  of  the  sinner 
who  became  a  saint  and  the  saint  a  sinner.  While  the 
tale  undoubtedly  inspired  the  composer,  it  would  be 
little  without  the  ceaseless  eloquence  of  the  music  — 
that  is  absolutely  Massenet's  own  contribution.  All 
moods  are  reflected  in  its  limpid  flow  and  all  are  made 
visible;  the  Greek  triumphal  scene,  a  vision  of  life  and 
light  in  delicate  pastel  tints,  even  the  small  if  effective 
part  of  Nicias  in  its  hint  of  worldly  protection  through 
sexual  fondness;  the  Meditation,  that  divine  reverie  of 
harp,  strings  and  solo  violin  which  should  be  played 
only  in  poetic  twilight  gloom;  the  touching  defense,  in 
the  rich  and  rolling  periods  of  Mary  Garden,  of  her 
little  Eros;  the  sad  end  under  the  palms  of  love's  close 
companionship,  in  the  bitter-sweet  water  duet  with  the 
gourd  at  the  spring,  a  true  page  from  the  Orient  — 
how  wonderful  all!  I  never  think  of  Thais  as  by 
anybody  but  Mary  Garden,  whose  charming  American 
name  heralds  her  own  charm  of  person  and  person- 
ality;  nor  can  I  think  of  Athanael  as  by  other  than 
Renaud,  he  of  the  (ire  and  pathos  in  action  and  eyes  — - 
so  perfectly  have  the   two   identified  themselves  with 


222  Within  My  Horizon 

these  inexorable  parts.  The  orchestration  also  is  a 
constant  miracle,  picturing  not  only  what  is  attractive 
but  what  is  repellent,  as  the  noisome  violence  of  the 
priest's  sensation  when  he  realizes  the  truth  after  the 
woman  he  desires  has  by  the  sisters  been  led  away. 

Isolde!  The  very  name  stands  for  love,  uncon- 
querable love,  love  of  man  for  woman,  woman  for 
man  —  and  yet  for  so  much  more.  The  prelude  hints 
of  all  that  is  to  come:  the  rage  of  the  woman  scorned; 
the  romantic  duo  in  the  subtle  moonlight,  whispering 
of  voluptuous  repose;  the  agonizingly  impassioned 
crescendo  and  climax,  the  clash  of  Love  and  Law,  with 
Love  fatally  wounded  —  then  the  immortal  Liebestod. 
Lilli  Lehmann  was  our  first  Isolde,  but  Lillian  Nordica 
was  our  first  love  —  our  own  ravishing  Nordica, 
American  from  slipper  to  tiara!  Of  all  great  Isoldes 
she  seemed  to  me  the  most  unaffected  and  womanly, 
while  in  voice  she  was  peculiarly  gifted  —  her  voice 
Seidl  himself  revered.  The  "  dream  "  music,  with 
Jean  de  Reszke,  midst  the  dim  beauty,  the  ominous 
hush,  of  the  old  Cornwall  garden,  a  realization  of  life's 
mystery  in  which  death  seemed  to  pause,  was  an  ex- 
perience for  both  eye  and  ear.  As  for  the  Liebestod, 
who  could  bring  out  its  sad  rapture  like  her?  She 
sang  it  with  full  comprehension  of  its  meaning,  with 
unparalleled  opulence  of  tone,  and  with  sublime  sur- 
render to  death  and  the  gods.  No  singer  has  surpassed 
her  exaltation  in  this  culminating  moment,  as  none  has 
displayed  her  physical  endurance,  since  at  the  end  of 
the  long  evening  of  exacting  labor  she  seemed  as  fit 
as  at  the  beginning.  Her  noble  soprano,  luscious  in 
quality  as  limitless  in  power,  rose  and  fell  in  melting 


Grand  Opera  223 

tenderness,  in  resistless  urge  and  surge,  far  above  the 
most  forceful  orchestra  then  known,  sweeping  her 
from  the  agony  of  the  dead  lover  at  her  feet  to  reunion 
where  beyond  these  voices  there  is  peace. 

In  19 1 3,  when  misfortune  overtook  my  ears,  I 
bought  a  victrola,  which  brought  me,  I  believe,  the 
keenest  musical  pleasure  of  all.  As  a  friend  said  :  "  I 
have  noticed  that  when  one  door  shuts  another  is  apt 
to  open."  Frequently  I  had  contended  that  we  did  not 
listen  to  opera  music  right :  that  we  should  be  at  rest, 
even  lying  down,  far  from  the  distracting  crowd ;  that 
the  long  intermissions,  with  their  meaningless  gabble, 
the  fierce  illumination  which  is  like  a  blow,  the  weary 
hour  upon  hour  through  so  much  to  gain  so  little,  were 
all  wrong.  If  only  one  could  have  it,  I  used  to  say, 
like  King  Ludwig  of  Bavaria,  in  one's  own  opera 
house;  or  the  heart  of  it,  the  well-loved  passages,  at 
ease,  at  home,  alone  —  perhaps  in  that  solitude  of 
which  Cowper  speaks : 

"  How  sweet,  how  passing  sweet  is  Solitude. 
But  grant  me  still  a  friend  in  my  retreat, 
Whom  I  may  whisper,  Solitude  is  sweet." 

This  all  came  with  my  victrola,  a  sweet  and  power- 
ful instrument,  the  best  of  its  kind.  At  last  my  dream 
came  true :  I  had  but  to  close  my  eyes,  summer  or 
winter,  rain  or  shine,  when  lo !  right  at  hand  was  the 
faintly  glowing  curtain,  the  wave  of  the  magic  wand, 
the  sudden  hush  in  the  vast  auditorium,  the  beautiful 
anticipatory  moment  in  the  dark,  the  thrilling  har- 
monies of  some  great  prelude,  the  rising  of  the  great 


224  Within  My  Horizon 

gold  tapestry  in  its  great  gold  frame.  Then  one  after 
another  the  masterpieces  of  the  world,  of  which  this 
little  wonder  was  the  perfect  essence  and  expression. 
My  heaven  was  attained. 


XXXI 

GEMS    IN    THE   SKY 

Why  did  not  somebody  teach  me  the  Constellations,  and 
make  me  at  home  in  the  starry  heavens,  which  are  always 
overhead  and  I  don't  half  know  to  this  day? 

Thomas  Carlyle. 

Astronomy  as  a  science  is  almost  pure  mathematics, 
but  pictorially  it  is  a  cosmic  marvel  and  poem.  The 
skies  are  so  infinitely  lovely  that  one  can  scarcely  be- 
lieve they  really  exist !  They  should  become  a  near 
and  dear  part  of  every  human  being.  But  mere  read- 
ing cannot  accomplish  this.  By  that  road  you  will 
never  be  able  to  say :  "  Those  are  the  Pleiades,  these 
are  the  Hyades,  that  fine  star  is  Denebola,  dancing  at- 
tendance on  Berenice's  Hair."  One  by  one  you  must 
reverently  seek  and  find  them ;  but  to  know  them  once 
is  to  know  them  for  all  time  —  like  the  swimmer's 
stroke,  it  never  is  forgotten. 

Home  from  the  mountains  one  September  long  ago, 
depressed  that  I  scarcely  knew  one  star  from  another, 
a  book  of  blessed  diagrams  fell  into  my  hands  and  I 
went  to  work  in  earnest.  Vet  craning  neck  out  of 
windows,  rushing  wildly  into  the  street  to  gaze  up- 
ward till  pedestrians  stopped  and  gazed  with  me; 
reading  at  corner  lamps  till  everybody  turned  and 
stared  —  this  had  its  drawbacks.     Suddenly  I  thought 


226  Within  My  Horizon 

of  that  common  retreat  in  an  Oriental  home  —  the 
roof.  Drawing-  a  bolt,  I  climbed  steep  steps,  lifted  a 
heavy  scuttle,  fell  on  an  expanse  of  tin  —  and  found 
myself  in  heaven.  Star  upon  star  unseen  below  re- 
sponded to  my  appeal,  and  altogether  it  was  a  royal 
welcome  from 

"  That  inverted  bowl  they  call  the  sky 
Whereunder  crawling  coopt  we  live  and  die." 

To  compare  the  diagram  with  the  real  thing  took 
endless  trips  down  and  back  again,  there  was  many  a 
seance  on  the  roof  before  conjecture  became  certainty, 
but  come  the  understanding  did  at  last  and  to  stay. 

Given  the  Great  Dipper,  the  rest,  if  you  care,  is  com- 
paratively easy.  Although  I  had  discovered  Vega 
directly  overhead  and  in  the  west  Arcturus,  that  favor- 
ite of  Peary  who  in  the  lonely  Arctic  watched  it  circling 
far  to  the  south  of  him,  the  wider  outlook  of  the  roof 
revealed  a  distinctly  foreign  star,  the  first-magnitude 
Spica,  in  Virgo,  glittering  close  to  the  southwest  hori- 
zon before  leaving  for  its  winter  home  in  the  tropics. 
Vega,  in  Lyra,  is  believed  to  be  the  centre  of  our  sys- 
tem ;  millions  of  years  hence  it  may  be  our  pole  star  — 
instead  of  bright  Polaris,  so  much  more  truly  that,  in 
its  close  proximity  to  the  Pole,  than  those  insignificant 
Antarctic  worlds  in  like  situation.  The  Southern 
Cross,  w^hich  in  the  south  sailors  depend  upon  to  steer 
by,  is  nearly  thirty  degrees  from  the  Pole,  while 
Polaris  is  practically  one  degree,  and  still  approaching, 
so  that  in  two  centuries  it  will  be  less  by  half !  Polaris 
is  conspicuous  as  the  tip  of  the  Little  Dipper's  handle, 
toward  which  Alpha  and  Omega  in  the  bowl  of  the 


Gems  in  the  Shy  227 

Great  Dipper  always  point,  as  do  the  eyes  of  every 
northern  navigator  on  the  globe.  English  captains 
who  sail  the  Seven  Seas  refer  to  these  figures  by  their 
scientific  appellations  Ursa  Major  and  Minor,  Big  and 
Little  Bear,  not  seeming  to  recognize  the  interesting 
dipper  figures,  though  accepted  by  every  school-boy  in 
the  United  States. 

Across  the  Milky  Way  from  Vega  is  another  of  first- 
magnitude,  Altair,  in  Aquila,  the  Eagle,  easily  distin- 
guished by  a  faint  equidistant  star  on  either  hand,  while 
slightly  northwest  of  Altair  is  that  small  architectural 
lozenge  called  Job's  Coffin.  Between  Altair  and  Vega, 
lying  in  the  Milky  Way,  which  greatly  enhances  its 
splendor,  with  head  pointing  north,  is  the  immense 
Northern  Cross.  Many  prefer  this  to  the  Southern 
Cross  because  of  its  great  size  and  perfect  symmetry, 
though  of  its  eight  stars  there  is  but  one  bright  one  — 
Deneb,  at  the  top.  A  line  drawn  from  Altair  to  Arc- 
turus  passes  through  the  Northern  Crown,  a  sparkling 
diadem  of  five  small  stars  with  a  larger  gem  appro- 
priately in  the  centre. 

South  of  Cassiopeia,  that  circumpolar  constellation 
in  the  form  of  an  open  W,  a  line  of  stars  leads  to  the 
great  square  of  Pegasus,  the  Flying  Horse,  the  whole 
thing  not  unlike  a  deep,  long-handled  sauce-pan.  You 
can  also  witness  in  September  the  closing  moments  of 
Scorpio,  which  soon  migrates,  like  the  birds,  to  the 
south.  It  is  easily  identified  by  its  stunning  first- 
magnitude  star  Antares,  which  in  its  great  size  and  red 
fire  rivals  the  planet  Mars  —  whence  its  name.  anti- 
Mars.  East  of  Scorpio  you  run  against  Sagittarius, 
the  Archer,  six  of  whose  small  stars  form  an  inverted 


228  Within  My  Horizon 

dipper  perfect  in  shape  and  because  in  the  Milky  Way 
known  as  the  Milk  Dipper,  while  east  of  Sagittarius 
you  can  distinguish  the  three  pairs  of  small  stars  repre- 
senting the  head,  tail  and  knees  of  the  goat  in  Capri- 
corn, and  still  farther  east  looming  above  the  horizon 
is  Fomalhaut,  the  eighteenth  first-magnitude  on  the  list. 
Near  Fomalhaut  in  September  is  Jupiter,  glorious  as 
Venus  at  her  best,  but  minus  her  soft  golden  light  — 
sharper,  more  electric,  more  masculine! 

In  December  comes  the  greatest  display  of  all:  glo- 
rious Orion,  the  Mighty  Hunter,  one  mass  of  splendid 
gems,  on  knee,  belt,  shoulders,  and  along  his  sword; 
Aldebaran,  red  as  Antares,  in  the  head  of  Taurus; 
Castor  and  Pollux,  the  Twins,  Procyon,  the  Dog  Star, 
and  Capella,  queen  of  pentagonal  Auriga  —  to  say 
nothing  of  that  finest  "  Jager  "  of  them  all,  blue-white 
Sirius.  Xo  section  of  the  heavens  from  Arctic  to 
Antarctic  is  so  rich  and  dazzling.  In  February  this 
galaxy  will  be  followed  at  a  respectful  distance  by 
Regulus,  in  Leo,  sometimes  called  the  Lion's  Heart. 
While  not  a  first-magnitude  star,  Regulus  is  notably 
beautiful  and  advantageously  set  in  the  handle  of  one 
of  the  most  perfect  figures  in  the  firmament,  the  Sickle. 

Each  one  of  these  now  familiar  friends  I  annexed 
laboriously,  unable  to  get  for  love  or  money  any  aid 
beyond  this  old-time  text-book,  though  I  went  on  my 
knees  to  uninterested  navigators,  professors,  publish- 
ers and  Lncle  Sam  himself,  who  wouldn't  sell!  The 
faithful  "  Heavens  Above,"  by  J.  A.  Gillet  and  W.  J. 
Rolfe,  published  in  1882  by  Potter,  Ainsworth  and 
Company  of  Xew  York  and  Chicago,  was  the  only 
portable  thing  I  could  find  except  an  old-fashioned, 


Gems  in  the  Sky  229 

fine-print  atlas  which  took  the  eyes  out  of  my  head. 
But  within  the  past  few  years  various  popular  volumes 
have  appeared.  Garrett  P.  Serviss'  "  Astronomy  with 
the  Naked  Eyes,"  Harper  and  Brothers,  is  perhaps  the 
best,  together  with  the  Barritt-Serviss  movable  "  Star 
and  Planet-Finder,"  150  Nassau  Street.  Still,  I  have 
an  affection  for  my  own  little  out-of-print  book,  with 
diagrams  in  dotted  lines  from  star  to  star,  and  draw- 
ings indicating  why  the  constellations  are  named  as 
they  are  —  a  good  thing  for  the  lone  beginner. 

At  sea  one  can  appeal  to  the  skipper  for  informa- 
tion, but  if  he  hands  over  for  an  hour  his  valuable 
charts,  you  may  find  yourself  instructing  him  —  so  lit- 
tle do  sailors  care  for  any  save  a  few  conspicuous  stars 
to  steer  by. 

Around  the  world  I  went  to  the  Orient  with  its  thrill- 
ing beauty  of  sky  and  sea  and  shore.  There  the  stars 
are  so  near  you  need  only  stretch  out  your  hand  to 
touch  them.  Some  of  the  loveliest  moments  were  at 
Kandy,  in  Ceylon,  when  simply  to  look  out  into  the 
night  was  pure  joy.  A  thick  mango  shaded  my  win- 
dow and  beyond  along  the  lake  were  delicate  taller 
trees  in  silhouette  against  the  sky.  One  evening  the 
lightning  played,  while  large  glow-worms  rested  on 
the  air.  As  music  drifted  out  from  the  hotel,  a  Cinga- 
lese in  white  drapery  paused  and  watched  the  gayety 
within.  The  stars,  the  silence,  the  fireflies,  the  light- 
ning, the  gleaming  water,  the  tropical  tree,  the  motion- 
less figure  under  it  with  face  upturned,  the  penetrating 
fragrance  of  the  sacred  champak  blossom,  so  much 
like  our  tuberose  —  cannot  you  see  it  all?  That  is 
Cevlon  —  a  thine:  not  to  analyze  but  to  feel. 


230  Within  My  Horizon 

Here  I  met  for  the  first  time  the  Southern  Cross. 
After  a  lifetime  of  longing  its  beauty  enchanted  me  for 
nights  together.  Between  midnight  and  dawn  I  had 
only  to  open  my  eyes  to  make  it  mine  —  this  Christian 
symbol  describing  its  small  arc  around  the  Pole.  Even 
though  it  falls  short  of  perfection,  bereft  of  a  central 
star  to  unite  its  four  arms,  "  Croce  Maravigliosa,"  as 
Pigafetta  called  it,  is  a  thing  of  supreme  loveliness  and 
meaning.  Besides  its  four  sparkling  brilliants,  Alpha 
at  the  base  one  of  the  largest  in  the  skies,  there  is  within 
its  diamond-shaped  quadrilateral  Herschel's  "  gorgeous 
piece  of  fancy  jewelry,"  that  nebulous  cluster  of  many- 
colored  gems  about  which  astronomers  wrangle. 

My  last  glimpse  of  Ceylon  embraced  her  civilization 
in  microcosm  —  the  ocean,  the  Orient,  in  a  single  drop. 
It  was  then,  with  the  sea  breaking  in  long,  creamy 
lines  close  to  the  rickshaw,  the  blood-red  road  leading 
into  the  wonder  of  green,  that  men,  women  and  chil- 
dren sank  into  insignificance  beside  the  supreme  fact 
of  a  tropical  land;  a  land  which  asks  no  odds  of  any 
human  being,  but  conceives,  blooms  and  fructifies  with- 
out bargain  or  stint.  It  is  not  the  Cingalese,  alluring 
though  they  may  be;  it  is  Ceylon  herself  —  alive,  eter- 
nally youthful,  eternally  fecund.  Here,  beauty  is  a 
vital,  palpitating  thing;  here  green  shoots  forth,  buds 
blossom,  fruits  ripen,  gems  are  tossed  up,  as  you  gaze. 
Nature  need  never  be  coaxed,  she  opens  her  arms  wide 
and  surrenders  herself  gladly.  Thus  will  this  para- 
disal  isle  ever  rise  before  me  —  as  a  young  ardent 
mother,  with  a  stirring  life  always  beneath  her  heart, 
and  forever  giving  of  her  blood  and  substance  for  love 
alone. 


Gems  in  the  Sky  231 

Seven  years  later,  starting  from  Batavia  for  the  in- 
terior of  Java  at  4  a.  m.,  I  again  met  the  Tropics  and 
the  Southern  Cross.  Never  was  a  place,  a  time,  a  con- 
dition, more  poetic  than  the  green  court  of  our  hotel  at 
that  hour,  all  fresh  and  sweet  from  rain.  In  the 
southwest  blazed  the  Cross,  with  the  faithful  Centaurii, 
while  across  the  way  from  red  Antares,  high  in  the 
heavens,  was  red  Mars.  The  strange,  still  hour;  the 
scent  of  wet  flowers  and  foliage,  led  by  the  insistent 
perfume  of  the  frangipani ;  the  white  orchids  staring 
from  the  trees  with  their  thousand  eyes;  the  noiseless 
natives  in  attendance,  the  crunch  of  carriage  wheels 
upon  the  gravel,  the  landlord  waiting  patiently  in 
trousers  and  bare  feet  to  bid  a  kind  goodbye  —  what  a 
scene ! 

When  after  half  a  dozen  years  the  Equator  was 
crossed  a  second  time,  to  the  Strait  of  Magellan,  an- 
other dream  came  true.  Beside  fifty-five  degrees 
south,  Java's  nine  looked  small,  and  it  was  great  to 
meet  those  Antarctic  worlds  guarding  the  virgin  South 
Pole,  and  to  see  the  resplendent  Southern  Cross  almost 
overhead !  One  clear,  dark  night  on  the  voyage  to 
Valparaiso  I  was  able  to  round  up  everything :  the 
Coal  Sack,  that  black  deep  in  the  Milky  Way,  close  to 
the  Cross,  which  even  hardened  astronomers  regard 
with  awe;  the  minor  Magellanic  Clouds,  mostly  in 
Hydrus,  not  only  smaller  but  duller  than  the  major  in 
Dorado  —  contrary  to  the  opinion  of  astronomic  au- 
thorities. Every  South  Polar  star  hitherto  dimmed 
by  the  moonlight  stood  out  and  sang  its  own  eloquent 
song,  while  the  Milky  Way  was  a  sight  to  make  the 
heart  stand  still.     Without  effort  I  identified  the  con- 


232  Within  My  Horizon 

stellations  Crater;  Musca;  Norma;  Lupus;  Triangu- 
lum; the  Crow,  Eridanus,  famous  for  Achenar,  clean, 
cold,  imperious;  all  the  second-magnitude  stars  in 
Carina,  keel  of  Argo  the  Ship,  home  of  godlike  Cano- 
pus,  my  first  tropical  luminary,  adored  long  before  I 
knew  he  was  the  biggest  thing  of  his  kind  in  the  Uni- 
verse ! 

At  Santiago  de  Chili,  Scorpio  with  his  bloody  eye 
and  wicked  stinging  tail  followed  me  right  into  the 
open  court  of  the  hotel  around  which  were  grouped 
the  dormitories;  Los  Andes,  midst  its  lush  vegetation 
at  the  foot  of  the  Cordilleras,  where  you  pause  for 
breath  before  climbing  those  mighty  flanks,  still  dis- 
ported southern  stellar  worlds;  while  at  Buenos  Ayres 
I  noticed  that  the  sunny  side  of  the  Avenue  de  Mayo 
faced  north  and  that  Orion  in  the  zenith  was  —  up- 
side down! 

"  Love,  the  fair  day  is  drawing  to  its  close, 
The  stars  are  rising,  and  a  soft  wind  blows; 
The  gates  of  heaven  are  opening  in  a  dream, 
The  nightingale  sings  to  the  sleeping  rose. 

"Shadows,  and  dew,  and  silence,  and  the  stars; 
I  wonder,  love,  what  is  behind  those  bars 
Of  twinkling  silver- — is  there  aught  behind?  — 
Venus  and  Jupiter,  Sirius  and  Mars; 

"  Aldebaran  and  the  soft  Pleiades, 

Orion  ploughing  the  ethereal  seas, — 

Which  are  the  stars,  my  love,  and  which  your  eyes? 

And,  O  the  nightingale  in  yonder  trees !  " 


XXXII 

THE    WONDER    OF    STORM 

How  I  love  a  dark  day :  how  I  revel  in  what  Emerson 
calls  "  the  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm  " —  that  cosi- 
ness like  no  other!  Because  of  this,  a  sharp  friend  of 
mine  used  to  say  that  I  surely  was  a  decadent  —  so 
strangely,  in  this  only  half  grown-up  republic,  do  we 
define  joy ;  so  inevitably  do  we  associate  the  idea  of 
it  with  something  "  gay,"  something  gregarious,  some- 
thing "  doing,"  rather  than  an  occasional  communion 
with  one's  own  soul. 

I  have  been  fond  of  storm,  Nature's  storms,  from 
my  earliest  years ;  going  out  into  the  snow,  rain  or 
wind  as  though  they  were  not ;  or  better  still,  when  the 
snow  was  sleet,  the  rain  a  flood,  the  wind  furious,  find- 
ing the  fireside  all  the  more  delicious  by  contrast  with 
the  commotion  outside.  In  the  old  country  days  it 
was  the  open  log  fire,  with  andirons  of  brass  or  iron, 
but  of  later  years  it  has  been  the  glowing  bed  of  an- 
thracite or  that  completely  modern  invention,  the 
square  asbestos  grate,  so  clean  and  handy,  which  in  its 
broad  expanse  of  bluish  flame  is  like  nothing  so  much 
as  a  living,  shimmering  fire  opal ;  and  which  warms 
with  a  thoroughness,  an  intensity,  known  to  no  other 
form  of  artificial  heat  —  so  that  our  own  household  is 
wont  to  term  the  efficient,  comforting,  healing  thing 

"  the  doctor,"  though  its  ministrations  are  as  much  to 

233 


234  Within  My  Horizon 

the  mind  as  the  body.  But  that  is  the  characteristic 
of  a  good  physician,  don't  you  think? 

Snow  had  been  falling  steadily  for  eighteen  hours  — 
all  the  afternoon  before  and  all  night.  A  thick  pow- 
dery blanket,  white  and  virgin,  of  the  country  rather 
than  the  town,  covered  everything  as  the  world  awoke 
that  morning  to  the  unusual  beauty.  Early  in  the 
game  the  previous  day  I  had  tramped  through  the 
blinding  storm  for  an  hour,  and  what  a  delightful 
tramp  it  was,  in  spite  of  the  gale  and  deepening  drifts 
■ —  what  tonic  in  the  struggle,  what  pleasure  in  the  clean 
air!  To  this  day  I  can  feel  the  storm's  damp  fondling 
of  cheek  and  lips,  the  rush  of  snow  that  curled  the 
hair,  tinted  the  complexion,  and  whitened  the  then 
whitest  teeth  ever  —  though  I  say  it  who  should  not. 

When  morning  broke,  and  the  vision  engulfed  us, 
somebody  sighed  for  a  sleigh  —  but  not  I.  Though 
born  in  the  land  of  the  "  cutter,"  I  remembered  too 
well  its  miseries :  the  stiff  lips,  the  feet  like  clumps  of 
ice  —  with  no  escape.  Beating  one's  way  on  foot 
through  the  worst  storm  ever  is  ecstasy  compared  to 
that  enforced  inertia.  But  that  is  sleighing  in  a  low 
temperature,  while  this  memorable  Brooklyn  morning 
was  gray,  mild,  mystic,  and,  sleighs  being  rare  birds, 
drew  me  on  my  two  good  feet  to  the  Park.  Here  I 
found  a  path  wide  and  even,  that  betrayed  the  old- 
fashioned  snow-plow,  pulled  and  navigated  by  man  and 
beast.  Henceforth  everything  was  ideal  —  the  easy 
going,  the  lonely  way,  the  young  clay.  The  asphalt, 
with  its  thin  layer  of  snow,  took  the  impression  of  my 
foot-steps  like  wax,  and  no  great  explorer  could  have 
been  more  exhilarated  at  the  sierht  than  I  - —  absolutely 


The  Wonder  of  Storm  235 

the  first  human  being  to  strike  out  into  a  new,  spotless, 
exclusive  world;  as  much  of  heaven,  this  fresh  fallen 
snow,  as  of  earth. 

Thanks  to  God  for  the  pines  and  all  the  evergreens ! 
What  should  we  do  without  that  touch  of  rich  color  to 
soften  the  winter  austerity?  They  are  growing  less 
each  year,  these  old  everlastings,  and  unaided  by  man 
seldom  come  again  in  the  same  place,  the  seed-carry- 
ing power  of  birds  being  against  rather  than  for  them. 
The  cream-white  boles  of  the  birches  had  value  beside 
the  gray  trunks  of  apparently  lifeless  trees,  but  even 
the  driest  branches  held  their  distinguished  line  of 
snow,  while  the  cedars  bore  their  silver  crowns  as 
proudly  as  an  ancient  marquise  her  daintily  powdered 
hair.  How  many  realize  that  the  thick,  glossy  leaves 
of  the  rhododendrons  remain  green  all  winter;  and 
only  a  shade  less  vivid  than  amidst  the  riot  of  June  — 
which  is  only  one  of  the  secrets  revealed  by  a  surrep- 
titious look  into  Nature's  heart. 

The  rose  garden  seemed  as  blank  and  unvisited  as 
inner  Labrador ;  not  the  slightest  sign  of  boy  or  man, 
not  a  breath  of  breeze,  not  the  faintest  sparrow  twitter 
to  break  the  great  silence.  Only  a  shining  path,  made 
as  if  by  invisible  hands,  led  on  and  on.  At  the  lake, 
however,  in  a  cleared  spot  gay  little  bodies  were  skat- 
ing, awkwardly  as  compared  with  the  buoyant  freedom 
on  the  old  Ashuelot.  But  what  of  that,  since  here  as 
there  they  all  had  Youth,  the  most  adorable  thing  in 
the  world,  is  it  not? 

"  You  too  had  your  ticket,''  John  once  reminded  me; 
"  you  had  it  and  used  it  —  so  why  complain?1  " 

Tired  of  the  skaters,   for  even  Youth  can  be  tire- 


236  Within  My  Horizon 

some,  I  struck  out  for  the  neighboring,  forest-clad  hill, 
and  knew  what  it  was,  making  my  own  path  through 
the  meadow,  to  have  skirts  as  sopping  as  on  that  mo- 
mentous home-coming  from  Indian  Pass,  in  the  Adi- 
rondacks,  when  night  came  on  and  the  trail  was  lost 
and  we  walked  through  brooks  to  our  knees.  In  the 
frequent  haze  of  the  gentler  months,  the  Park  meadows 
remind  me  of  England;  but  there  was  no  hint  of  Eng- 
land in  the  sudden  glitter  of  that  noon  sun,  with  its 
blinding  reflection  on  the  snow.  The  earlier  charm, 
the  gray  reserve,  the  intangible  mystery,  abruptly 
vanished,  and  I  turned  homeward  under  the  influence 
less  of  the  mood  than  the  mind. 

For  beside  me  until  then  walked  one  whom  the  world 
might  not  see  yet  who  thrilled  with  keenest  life.  She 
answers  sometimes  to  one  name,  sometimes  to  an- 
other, but  Wonder  will  do ;  and  not  always  is  she  a 
wraith,  but  often  masquerades  as  one  we  love  —  one, 
maybe,  who  has  the  power  to  trace 

"  Under  the  common  thing  the  hidden  grace, 
And  conjure  wonder  out  of  emptiness, 
Till  mean  things  put  on  beauty  like  a  dress, 

And  all  the  world  is  an  enchanted  place.'' 


XXXIII 

SMELL   OF    THE    GREEN 

"  Christmas  is  rapidly  becoming  less  the  birthday  of 
a  King  than  an  eleemosynary  institution,"  said  John. 
"  It  may  be  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive,  but 
both  are  bad.  Giving  is  often  a  form  of  self-indul- 
gence, you  know." 

"  Unto  every  one  that  hath  shall  be  given,  and  he 
shall  have  abundance ;  but  from  him  that  hath  not  shall 
be  taken  away  even  that  which  he  hath,"  I  quoted. 
"  It  seems  hard,  if  the  Lord  did  say  it." 

"  The  truth  is  hard,"  piped  John. 

Yet,  whatever  his  ideas  about  Christmas,  that  it  is  a 
boon  to  the  children  he  admitted,  while  remarking  it 
was  little  noticed  when  he  was  a  child,  that  all  power 
was  expended  on  Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving  was 
important  to  me  also:  the  big  turkey;  the  stabbing  of 
apples  with  a  fork  in  a  tub  of  water;  the  lighting  of 
apple  candles,  with  greased  almond  wicks,  and  the  eat- 
ing of  them  by  the  elders  before  our  astonished  eyes; 
the  great  paper  bag  of  candy,  hanging  from  the  ceil- 
ing, to  be  smashed  by  some  blindfolded  victor,  who 
found  his  own  share  lost  in  the  general  scramble  —  all 
this  attests  that  Keene  was  not  behind  on  Pilgrim 
Fathers'  Day. 

But  Christmas  was  different;  though  after  learning 

237 


238  Within  My  Horizon 

the  true  nature  of  Santa  Claus  the  once  marvelous 
gifts  in  stockings  failed  to  interest  me  —  while  the 
smell  of  the  green  stirs  me  to  this  hour.  How  it  does 
call  up  the  picturesque  stone  church,  whose  festoons  of 
evergreen  we  helped  to  build ;  and  the  lighted  tree,  with 
its  strings  of  popcorn,  its  cornucopias  filled  with  bon- 
bons, and  the  dazzling  silver  balls  —  the  great  organ 
all  the  time  throbbing  out  its  passionate  undertone ! 
Human  nature  is  said  to  be  much  the  same  the  world 
over,  yet  the  shining  eyes  of  those  New  England  chil- 
dren looking  up  into  that  tree,  a  tree  taken  only  a  few 
hours  before  from  the  woods  near  by,  did  realize  a  cer- 
tain ideal.  To  them  Christmas  with  its  good  cheer 
and  simple  tokens  was  a  vital,  exquisite  thing. 
Modern  city  children,  with  their  little  old  heads,  their 
almost  uncanny  appraisement  of  values,  miss  so  much, 
so  much. 

Then  the  snowstorms,  and  the  glorious  walks  under 
the  stars.  What  joy  the  stars  have  been  to  me,  from 
the  time  I  could  see  anything  at  all  to  this  day,  when 
sometimes  they  seem  nearer  than  the  earth !  It  was 
Emerson  who  declared  that  if  the  stars  appeared  only 
one  night  in  a  thousand  years  men  would  believe  and 
adore  and  preserve  for  generations  the  remembrance 
of  the  city  of  God  which  had  been  shown. 

The  smell  of  the  green  last  Christmas  brought  to  me 
a  strong  nostalgia.  I  wandered  again  in  the  cool  frag- 
rance of  the  northern  hills,  just  as  when  the  warm  Gulf 
storms  rage  I  feel  in  their  caressing  moisture  the  seduc- 
tion of  the  equatorial  regions.  Kipling,  who  knows  so 
much,  realizes  the  power  of  odors  too,  when  he  says : 


Smell  of  the  Green  239 

Smells  are  surer  than  sounds  and  sights 

To  make  the  heart-strings  crack  — 
They  start  those  awful  voices  o'  nights 

That  whisper,  "  Old  man,  come  back  !  " 
That  must  be  why  the  big  things  pass 

And  the  little  things  remain, 
Like  the  smell  of  wattle  at  Lichtenberg 

Riding  in,  in  the  rain. 

It  was  so,  I  believe,  with  Mary  the  Mother  who, 
even  more  than  by  the  Star  in  the  East,  must  forever 
have  thrilled  to  the  odor  of  frankincense  and  myrrh. 


XXXIV 


DREAM 


"  Relentless  Time,  that  gives  both  harsh  and  kind, 

Brave  let  me  be 
To  take  thy  various  gifts  with  equal  mind 

And  proud  humility. 
But  even  by  day,  when  the  full  sunlight  streams, 

Give  me  my  dreams  ! 

"  Whatever,  Time,  thou  takest  from  my  heart, 

What  from  my  life, 
From  what  dear  thing  thou  may'st  make  me  part, 

Plunge  not  too  deep  the  knife; 
As  dies  the  day  and  the  long  twilight  gleams, 

Spare  me  my  dreams  !  " 

After  Love,  Dream  is  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world, 
for  Dream  endures  while  empires  crumble.  The  few 
people  who  mean  much  to  me  not  only  dream  but  have 
the  power  to  make  me  dream ;  but  you  know  —  you 
who  do  know.  The  success  of  "  Peter  Ibbetson,"  the 
play,  was  a  symptom  of  the  time;  for  the  play  is  not 
much  —  not  near  so  much  as  the  novel  and  Du  Mau- 
rier's  state  of  mind.  But  it  brought  home  to  the  world 
that  thinks,  yet  does  not  care  to  read,  and  a  world  at 
war  feverishly  demanding  such  a  message,  something 
it  could  envisage,  something  tangible. 

A  more  sure  relief  many  of  us  may  obtain  when  we 
are  more  finely  attuned,  since  all  desire  a  glimpse  of 

240 


Dream  241 

heaven,  if  only  a  heaven  on  earth.  A  lonely  woman, 
still  charming  in  the  youth  of  age,  was  once  loaned  a 
victrola  for  three  days  —  and  she  told  me  that,  as  the 
days  included  the  nights,  she  did  not  go  to  bed  at  all! 
This  so  touched  me  that  I  made  possible  for  her  an  in- 
strument of  her  own.  Among  the  records  sent  was 
one  very  beautiful  but  not  very  well  known,  Caruso  in 
"  Core  'ngrato,"  to  which  she  took  violently,  saying 
she  was  sure  the  poet  'meant  unfaithful  heart  rather 
than  ungrateful  —  that  no  mere  ingratitude  could 
cause  such  wild  sorrow  and  fierce  resentment.  She 
told  me  she  let  the  great  tenor  sing  to  her  only  in  the 
evening,  by  moonlight  when  possible,  putting  on  her 
few  remaining  laces  and  jewels.  She  listened  to  his 
golden  tones,  to  his  impassioned  appeal,  as  never 
maiden  to  living  lover,  since  to  her  he  was  the  lover 
eternal,  and  she  the  woman  who  had  won  his  heart. 
The  love  of  romance  in  a  woman  dies  hard. 

Once  in  a  blue  moon,  you  may  find  a  human  being, 
male  or  female,  who  has  the  power;  and,  given  love, 
you  may  know  the  magic  life,  beside  which  all  else  is 
shadow.  Through  the  aid  of  letters,  of  the  imagina- 
tion, of  mutual  work  and  play ;  o'f  sympathy  stirred  by 
kindred  interests,  by  a  common  joy  or  sorrow,  there 
may  be  born  a  union  of  the  spirit,  not  unmixed  with 
the  flesh,  far  transcending  any  rapture  of  youth  and 
beauty  in  its  prime.  Its  essence  is  perfect  freedom ; 
like  swimming  without  garments  or  floating  on  the  air 
■ — ■  in  absolute  faith  and  with  all  joys  won.  Its  in- 
fluence is  to  make  one  face  Death  without  fear:  for  if 
death  is  not  annihilation,  which  at  least  would  be  rest 
—  this  must  endure. 


242  Within  My  Horizon 

While  far  from  sensual,  it  is  a  part  of  all  that  lives 
and  breathes :  of  the  woods  and  the  waters,  the  flowers 
and  the  showers,  the  stones  and  the  stars.  While 
purely  of  the  mind,  it  can  pass  through  the  whole  gamut 
of  emotions  and  convey  the  most  exquisite  of  physical 
sensations  —  as  in  dream. 

For  it  is  dream ;  as  it  is  often  love  —  love  incarnate, 
love  unbound.  What  passes  for  love  in  this  existence 
is  more  often  slavery;  but  no  fetter  can  be  conceived 
here  —  both  give,  both  receive,  both  are  faithful,  in  the 
heat  of  life  as  in  the  chill  of  death. 

Dream  is  veritably  that  "  in  the  miz  "  which  to  one 
of  our  poets  has  been  a  symbol  of  mystery  since  child- 
hood, because  of  these  words  from  a  preacher  to  his 
flock  too  complicated  to  be  understood  by  the  dreaming 
little  one :  "  Lord  thou  art  God,  which  has  made 
heaven  and  earth  and  the  sea  and  all  that  in  them  is." 

That  child  was  Ella  Wheeler,  later  Ella  Wheeler 
Wilcox,  one  of  the  most  ardent  of  mystics. 


XXXV 

LOVE 

"  The  world  is  filled  with   folly  and  sin, 
And  love  must  cling  where  it  can,  I  say: 

For  beauty  is  easy  enough  to  win; 
But  one  isn't  loved  every  day." 

In  a  daily  paper  I  came  upon  the  following,  and  so 
entirely  is  it  what  I  believe  that,  editing  and  abbreviat- 
ing it  considerably,  I  feel  as  if  I  rather  than  the  un- 
known writer  were  responsible  for  its  sound  definition 
of  an  impressive  truth: 

Love  Conquers  All 

There  is  an  old  man  with  shrivelled  skin,  streaming 
white  hair  and  a  scythe  in  his  hand  against  whom  no 
man  or  woman  can  ever  hope  to  prevail.  It  is  Time. 
But  there  is  One  who  is  greater  still,  who  causes  old 
age,  even  the  grave,  to  fade  into  insignificance ;  who 
can  transform  the  desert  into  the  Garden  of  Eden  and 
death  itself  into  everlasting  life.  It  is  Love.  For 
Love  is  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world.  Love  and 
Love  alone  can  hold  Time  at  bay.  Time  thinks  he  can 
conquer  Love ;  that  he  can  envelop  the  lover  in  his 
embrace  and  his  cynical  laugh  will  make  the  lover  for- 
get. Even  so  he  must  bring  to  his  aid  his  three  allies 
— •  Absence,  Silence,  Age:  but  the  whole  combination 

243 


244  Within  My  Horizon 

cannot  vanquish  Love.  Passion,  the  counterfeit,  the 
herald,  of  Love's  glowing  self,  yes;  Time  always  con- 
quers passion  —  throws  and  throttles  her  and  thrusts 
her  out  into  the  cold;  but  Time  can  never  overcome 
Love.  Love  is  omnipotent;  it  is  the  essence  of  life  — 
the  most  luminous  thing  on  earth.  Love  always  has 
been  and  always  will  be ;  it  knows  no  beginning  or  end ; 
it  was  with  the  world  before  Time  was  born,  and  will 
be  with  the  world  when  Time  is  done. 

Listen!  Time  makes  a  slave  of  you;  Love  will  set 
you  free.  Time  is  a  brutal  task-master;  Love  makes 
all  tasks  glorious.  Time  rushes  you  hither  and  thither 
in  search  of  your  living;  Love  is  a  guiding-star  holding 
out  to  you  the  horn  of  plenty.  Time  will  work  against 
you;  Love  always  works  with  and  for  you.  Time 
cries  :  "  Hurry,  hurry !  I  am  flying.  You  will  miss 
success."  Love  takes  your  hand  tenderly  and  leads 
you  to  the  goal.  Time  is  ruthless  in  his  demands ; 
Love  asks  for  nothing.  Time  opens  your  eyes  to  the 
bad;  Love  closes  your  eyes  to  all  but  the  good.  Time 
will  bring  progress;  Love  and  progress  walk  hand  in 
hand.  Time  may  bring  you  fame ;  Love  is  sure  to 
bring  you  happiness.  Time  thrusts  ugly  old  age  upon 
you;  Love  puts  her  soft  fingers  over  your  silvering 
locks  and  they  gleam  with  beauty.  Time  is  a  thief; 
smashes  ideals,  steals  force,  robs  life  of  beauty  when 
he  can.  Love  creates  new  ideals,  brings  greater 
strength  to  endure  and  a  shining  loveliness  that  noth- 
ing can  destroy.  Time  takes  years  to  heal  life's 
wounds ;  Love  heals  them  instantaneously.  With  the 
understanding  of  love,  life  cannot  wound.  Time  is 
mortal,  while  Love  is  eternal. 


Love  245 

So  which  will  you  take  for  your  own,  the  old  cynic 
Time,  who  may  prove  your  undoing,  or  the  great  and 
wonderful  Love,  who  knows  naught  of  bestial  impulse; 
who  throws  her  loving  arms  around  you  and  the 
radiance  of  her  loving  self  through  you;  who  will 
never  listen  to  calamity  for  you  or  calumny  about  you ; 
who  gives  to  you  from  her  golden  stores  through  all 
eternity,  and  whose  resplendent  beauty  is  the  one 
thing  hostile  Time  cannot  dim. 

"  I  say  unto  you  today,  yesterday  and  forever  — ■ 
Love  is  Truth,  Beauty  and  Power." 


XXXVI 

THE    POET'S    WILL 

Emerson  says,  "  Next  to  the  originator  of  a  good 
sentence  is  the  first  quoter  of  it."  So  far  as  I  know, 
this  I  am,  as  regards  the  behest  of  Dr.  Frank  Crane, 
published  in  the  New  York  Globe,  June  13,  1916. 
From  this  unique  document,  which  greatly  appeals  to 
me,  I  quote  a  few  sentences,  with  due  apologies  to  the 
author  and  his  copyright : 

I  don't  want  a  regular  funeral.  I  don't  want  my 
body  laid  out  and  people  looking  at  my  dead  face.  I 
don't  want  a  procession  to  the  cemetery. 

Therefore  please  have  my  body  cremated.  Take 
the  ashes  and  enclose  them  in  an  earthen  urn.  Keep 
them  until  there  comes  a  warm,  sunshiny  day  in  sum- 
mer or  spring. 

Then  if  there  can  be  found  a  few  who  loved  me, 
and  felt  my  presence  on  earth  enough  to  be  sorry  I  am 
gone,  let  someone  who  loved  me  a  great  deal  call  them 
together,  and  let  them  all  go  out  into  some  open  place 
where  the  grass  is  green,  and  there  are  trees,  and  flow- 
ers are  springing,  and  wild  birds  flying  about. 

There  let  them  sit  on  the  warm  grass  and  eat  and 
drink,  not  stolidly  and  with  gloom,  but  with  sacra- 
mental joy,  for  they  know  that  they  are  pleasing  me, 

246 


The  Poefs  Will  247 

and  my  spirit  is  in  iheir  midst.  Let  them  recall  the 
kind  and  unselfish  acts  I  have  performed,  if  they  can 
think  of  any. 

Then  when  evening  falls  let  someone  open  my  urn, 
and,  taking  my  ashes  in  handfuls,  let  him  sow  them  in 
silence  to  the  wind,  so  that  some  shall  fall  on  the  earth, 
and  some  on  the  flowers  and  trees,  and  some  be  dust  on 
the  clothing,  and  some  be  blown  away. 

So  when  men  ask  for  my  grave  it  shall  be  said, 
"  Earth,  meadow,  and  all  living  things  are  his  grave. 
You  will  find  his  spirit  in  sunny  days." 

Above  all,  let  there  be  silence,  no  prayer,  no  ritual, 
no  word  said.  For  the  supremest  expression  of  feel- 
ing is  Silence. 

Here  is  my  will,  in  these  lines  of  Thomas  Moult: 

When  these  tired  eyes  are  closed  in  that  long  sleep 
Which  is  the  deepest  and  the  last  of  all, 
Shroud  not  my  limbs  in  purple  funeral  pall, 

Nor  mock  my  rest  with  vainest  prayers,  nor  weep; 

But  take  my  ashes  where  the  sunshine  plays 
In  dewy  meadows  splashed  with  gold  and  white, 
And  there,  when  stars  peep  from  black  pools  at  night, 

Let  the  wind  scatter  them.     And  on  the  days 

You  wander  by  those  meadow  pools  again, 
Think  of  me  as  I  then  shall  be,  a  part 
Of  earth  —  naught  else.     And  if  you  see  the  red 

Of  western  skies,  or  feel  the  clean,  soft  rain. 
Or  smell  the  flowers  1  loved,  then  let  your  heart 
Beat  fast  for  me,  and  I  shall  not  be  dead. 


248  Within  My  Horizon 

LYDDY 

By  Theodore  Bartlett 

THE  STORY  THAT  WON  THE  PRIZE 

My  friend,  we  will  not  inquire  about  her  past  life; 
Joe  Coble  did  not,  and  he  married  her,  so  why  need 
we?  Her  laces  were  bought  for  a  few  cents  a  yard, 
and  her  silks  came  from  an  old  clothes  shop,  but  for 
what  purpose  she  wore  her  little  fineries,  or  how  she 
paid  for  them,  we  will  not  question.  You  and  I 
passed  her  with  averted  eyes.  Not  so,  innocent  Joe 
Coble.  He  found  that  Lydia  had  a  heart,  and  he  lifted 
a  hat  to  it  —  an  imaginary  hat ;  he  seldom  removed 
his  own.  Later  on  he  found  he  loved  her,  and,  in  a 
blunt  way,  of  course,—  a  rough  man  like  Joe  cannot 
make  love  in  the  refined  way  you  and  I  can, —  he  told 
her  so. 

"  Eft  hed  n't  ben  fur  you,  Lyddy  (really  I  can't  help 
callin'  ye  familiar-like),  ef  't  hed  n't  ben  fur  you,  these 
yer  three  days  't  I've  passed  't  'Frisco  would  n't  hev  ben 
nowhere  ter  me  — 'cept  fur  the  sights." 

He  took  her  hand  awkwardly  in  his,  as  though  it 
were  a  piece  of  fragile  lace,  and  regarded  it  admiringly. 
He  did  not  see  the  black  and  blue  spots  her  sleeve 
covered. 

"  I  live  a  kind  o'  lonely  life  up  in  the  clearin'  (it  ain't 
all  clearin',  though  I  like  ter  call  it  so,  for  the  sake  of 
old  Ca'liney),  'n'  somehow  the  sosherable  time  I've  hed 
yer's  made  et  seem  lonelier  'n  usual.     Yer  see,  when 


Lyddy  249 

ye  hauled  me  in  out  o'  the  wet  that  night,  'n'  asked  'f 
I  wouldn't  come  in  'n'  wring  myself  out,"  he  laughed, 
"  't  seemed  's  tho'  I  was  'mungst  m'  old  nebbors  down 
ter  the  corners.  'N'  then,  arterwards,  yer  was  so 
kind  'n'  sosherable !  " 

She  had  bold,  questioning  eyes  (you  remember  how 
defiantly  they  looked  at  us  as  she  entered  the  old-clothes 
shop),  but  they  had  lost  all  their  defiance  while  he  was 
talking,  and  even  gathered  a  little  moisture. 

"  The  clearin'  's  rether  lonely,"  he  continued,  after 
a  pause ;  "  the  nighest  nebbor's  five  mile,  'n'  the  rail- 
road's ten.  But  it's  right  purty  —  't's  right  purty ! 
Ther's  th'  old  mount'n  back  on  us  a  loomin'  up,  'n'  the 
valley  before  us  a  sweepin'  down,  'n'  not  far  off's  th' 
ocean  a  peepin'  over  the  cliff.  'N'  all  around's  trees  't 
I  left  standin',  'n'  flowers  't  I  planted  'th  m'  own  hands. 
'N'  ye  ken  see  all  this  from  the  v'randy.  Oh,  it's 
purty,  Lyddy,  right  purty!  But,"  after  a  pause,  "  et 
does  seem  lonely  now,  does  seem  lonely." 

A  more  experienced  observer  would  have  noticed  a 
strange  little  drop  making  a  wet  roadway  down  Lydia's 
cheek. 

"  Ter  tell  the  truth,  Lyddy,  I've  begun  to  think  thet 
—  thet  I  couldn't  go  back  without  ye,  'n'  thet's  the 
long  'n'  short  o't."  She  withdrew  her  hand  and 
coughed.  "  O'  course,"  rubbing  his  chin,  nervouslv. 
"  this  sounds  a  little  forrard  'n'  bold  t'  a  lady  like  you, 
Lyddy,  'n'  I  know  how  attractive  the  city  is:  but  I 
couldn't  help  askin'  ye.  'N',  re'lly,  ye  might  like  the 
clearin'  better'n  ye  think.  .  .  .  But  1  wish  ye  would 
speak,  Lyddy ;  et's  kind  o'  nettlin'  not  to  hear  no 
answer." 


250  Within  My  Horizon 

He  looked  up.     She  was  sobbing. 

You  remember,  my  friend,  the  night  we  passed  that 
rather  tall,  round-shouldered  fellow  at  the  ferry  buy- 
ing tickets  for  a  way  station  up  the  coast  (the  night 
we  tried  to  beat  the  company  out  of  a  pass),  and  you 
remember  when  he  bowed  to  me  how  sweet  his  blue 
eyes  were,  in  spite  of  the  ticket  agent's  insolence  be- 
cause of  his  two  or  three  simple  questions  about  the 
time-card.  That  was  the  night  Lydia  disappeared 
and  Joe  Coble  was  married. 

Poor  Lydia!  While  Joe  was  talking  to  her  so 
sweetly,  she  had  pictured  to  herself  a  happy  little  wife, 
breathing  fresh  air,  and  singing  under  the  trees,  and 
picking  red  roses,  away  up  in  the  "  clearin'  " ;  such  a 
happy  little  wife,  with  a  real  home  and  a  real  husband! 
No  more  wickedness,  and  trouble,  and  heartburns,  but 
a  life  of  unending  bliss.  And  just  before  the  hour 
came  when  she  must  bid  Joe  good-bye  forever,  she 
would  be  lying  there  on  the  green  sod, —  of  course  she 
would  die  on  the  green  sod,  with  the  blue  sky  above, — 
and  she  would  take  his  hand  in  hers  and  tell  him  all  — 
all  about  her  past  life.  And  then,  of  course,  after  she 
had  been  good  to  him  so  very,  very  long,  then  he  would 
forgive  her  —  when  he  knew  all.  But  she  needn't 
tell  him  now ;  oh,  no,  not  now !  He  couldn't  under- 
stand, and  besides,  he  didn't  know  her  well  enough. 
She  could  tell  him  just  as  well  as  not,  only  —  only  — 
and  then  Joe  had  looked  up  and  found  her  sobbing. 

But,  after  the  first  joy  of  the  pure  country  air,  and 
the  green  trees,  and  the  yellow  and  red  flowers,  that 
vague,  trembling  fear  the  sobbing  had  smothered  for 
a  time  burst  forth  with  renewed  life;  and  all  at  once 


Lyddy  251 

every  thing  seemed  changed.  The  trees  bent  their 
heads  together  and  whispered  mysteriously;  the  flow- 
ers that  Joe  had  planted  nodded  this  way  and  that,  as 
if  engaged  in  the  most  damning  of  silent  gossip;  and 
the  old  house,  a  shaky  relic  of  days  long  past,  answered 
her  footfalls  in  echoes  that  made  her  look  around 
with  a  shiver,  and  tread  more  lightly. 

"  Joe,"  she  whispered,  in  affright,  one  evening, 
"  what's  that  pointing  at  me?  " 

They  were  walking  under  the  trees,  and  she  stood 
quite  rigid  before  a  few  low  bushes. 

"  Nothin',  Lyddy,  nothin',"  Joe  answered,  and  he 
walked  through  and  through  the  bushes  till  she  was 
quite  satisfied.  "  Ain't  ye  kind  o'  noshunal,  Lyddy  ? 
Mighty  few  bear  'round  yer." 

Gradually  she  began  to  shun  the  house  and  the  flow- 
ers and  the  trees,  and  to  wander  farther  off  down  to  the 
sharp  cut  in  the  cliff  where  the  trout  brook  ran  into 
the  sea.  Here  there  were  no  trees  to  whisper  about 
her  and  no  brilliant  flowers  to  assert  their  purity  over 
hers  —  nothing  but  the  abrupt  cliff  and  the  dark  pool 
below.  And  the  little  falls  that  plashed  into  the  pool 
did  not  mock  and  scorn  her  as  the  trees  and  the  flowers 
did.  They  talked  to  her  as  Joey  talked,  softly  and 
soothingly.  Oh!  if  she  could  but  feel  as  calm  and 
happy  as  the  water  seemed  —  if,  perhaps,  she  could 
go  to  sleep  down  there  in  the  deep  pool  —  with  Joey ! 

And,  after  a  while,  Joe  always  knew  where  to  find 
Lyddy  when  she  was  not  in  the  house.  It  was  always 
at  the  Gate,  as  he  called  it,  because  it  opened  into  the 
sea.  Neither  the  tall  pines  nor  the  sunny  garden 
seemed  to  hold  Lvdia. 


252  Within  My  Horizon 

"  Et's  purty  't  the  Gate  ter  be  sure,"  he  said,  one 
evening,  "  but  ther's  other  places  's  purtier.  Seems  ter 
me  ye're  gettin'  more  'n'  more  noshunal,  ain't  ye, 
Lyddy?" 

"  It's  so  quiet  and  peaceful  like,  Joe,"  answered 
Lydia ;  "  I  love  to  come  here  and  —  and  —  think." 

Joe  looked  anxious.  "  I  don't  believe  thinkin'  's 
so  good  for  ye,  Lyddy,  ez  gardinin'  or  —  egg  huntin'. 
I've  noticed  lately  that  ye  wa'n't  so  smart  as  ushul." 

He  sat  down  by  her  side.  The  sun  was  sinking  in 
the  sea,  blushing  as  it  disappeared,  and  the  old  moun- 
tain at  their  backs  caught  up  its  last  glow  and  grew 
ruddy  also. 

"When  I  think,  Lyddy," — tenderly  lifting  a  for- 
lorn little  spray  of  lace  from  her  neck, — "  when  I 
think  how  lonely  th'  old  place  was,  'n'  then  look  't  you 
'n'  me  together  yer,  why  et  seem's  tho'  I'd  bin  better 
done  by  than  was  right." 

Lydia  threw  her  arms  over  her  head  and  swayed  her 
body  slightly. 

"  Joe,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  like 
that.  Nobody  has  been  good  to  you.  Why  do  you 
keep  saying  so  ?  " 

"  Ter  be  sure,  ter  be  sure,"  he  answered,  hastily. 
"  Thet  is,  p'raps  I'm  a  little  overratin'  et."  He  re- 
mained silent  for  a  minute.  "  I'm  afeard,  Lyddy,  thet 
thet's  my  fault,  overratin'  things.  When  I  begun  ter 
talk  up  the  clearhr,  I  tho't  then  thet  p'raps  I  was  over- 
doin'  it.  But  't  ain't  preachin'  's  brings  things  true; 
et's  the  showin'." 

Joe  picked  up  a  twig  and  broke  it  in  pieces,  trying  to 
conceal    a    trembling    in    his    hands.     "  I'm    afeard, 


Lyddy  253 

Lyddy,"  he  began  again,  "  thet  I  hevn't  done  right  by 
ye.  I  talked  up  the  clearin'  high,  'n'  p'raps  I  misled 
ye.  But  sho !  don't  take  on  so"  (she  was  crying); 
"  don't  take  on  so.  Ez  sure's  ye  live  't'll  be  all  right 
in  time.  Why,  ye  hevn't  seen  the  big  tree  nor  the 
lighthouse  even !  " 

Lydia  threw  her  arms  about  his  bent  shoulders. 
"  Oh,  it  isn't  that,  Joe.  I  love  this  place,  in  my  way, 
because  —  because  it  is  yours,  and  you  are  so  good. 
It  is  not  that  — "     She  hesitated. 

"  Joey,"  she  said  at  length,  gently  releasing  him, 
"  when  you  asked  me  to  be  your  wife,  if  you  had  known 
I  was  holding  back  from  you  something  I  should  have 
told  you,  would  you  — " 

"Why,  Lyddy,"  broke  in  Joe,  "a  little  holdin' 
back's  nothin'.  Now,  fur  instance,  when  I  preached 
up  the  clearin' — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,  but  it  was  worse  than  that.  I  — 
I  deceived  you,  Joe  —  just  a  little."  She  plucked 
nervously  at  a  fringe  on  her  dress. 

"  Oh,  't  didn't  amount  ter  nuthin',  I  reckon."  Joe 
looked  away  reflectively.  "  Talkin'  about  deceivin', 
Lyddy,  there  was  onct  a  woman  right  yer  'n  this 
county,  'n'  she'd  deceived  a  'Frisco  man.  'N'  one 
night  she  kem  up  yer  'n'  jumped  int'  the  pool  —  this 
very  pool  yer  —  so's  ter  be  drownded  !  " 

"Oh,  don't,  Joe;  don't!"  moaned  Lydia,  covering 
her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  Sho!  I  was  only  instancin',  Lyddy.  Why,  she  was 
wicked,  you  know  —  awful  wicked  —  was  this 
woman." 

Lydia  withdrew  her  hands.     "Joe,  if  you  thought 


254  Within  My  Horizon 

I  had  deceived  you  bad  like  that,  would  you  —  would 
you  drown  me?  "     Her  face  was  quite  pale. 

"Drown  ye?" — looking  up — "why,  what's  the 
matter,  Lyddy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  joking."     She  laughed  dryly. 

"I  —  I  wish  ye  wouldn't  joke  that  way." 

"  No,  no.  I  won't,  Joe,  any  more  "  (plucking  again 
at  the  fringe)  ;  "  but,  speaking  of  this  woman  now  — 
perhaps  her  heart  was  good ;  she  may  have  had  a  hard, 
cruel  life.  There  are  such  women,  Joe;  perhaps  you 
have  met  them"  (Joe  shook  his  head),  "or  —  seen 
them  somewhere.  I  have.  I  have  seen  women  de- 
ceived and  betrayed  and  abused.  And  this  woman 
now,  maybe  her  life  had  been  made  hard  and  wicked 
for  her;  she  might  have  had  a  warm  heart  even  if  she 
did  do  —  bad  things." 

Joe  did  not  answer.  She  caught  his  arm.  "  Per- 
haps, Joe,  this  woman  had  been  outraged,  ill-treated, 
you  know ;  had  black  and  blue  spots  on  her  as  — 
as  I  had  once  —  beaten,  beaten,  Joe,  by  a  cruel 
father!" 

She  clutched  him  with  both  hands.  "  You  never 
met  my  father?  I  don't  want  you  to.  I  wanted  to 
get  away  from  him ;  and  so  I  married  you.  I  mean  " 
(convulsively)  "I  loved  you  just  the  same,  but  I  — 
I  wanted  to  get  away.  Don  't  you  see?  You  de- 
ceived yourself,  you  know"  (laughingly).  "You 
never  asked  me  any  thing,  and  —  and  why  didn't  you  ? 
You  might  have  asked  me  all  about  —  all  about  it  — 
all  about  my — "  She  cried  herself  into  hysterics,  and 
Joe,  poor,  frightened  Joe,  was  unable  to  comfort  her. 
But  when  she  had  become  calm  again,  and  they  stood 


Lyddy  255 

there  silent  in  the  clear  light  of  the  rising  moon,  she 
drew  his  head  to  her  and  softly  kissed  him  on  his  neck, 
on  his  coarse  chin,  and  on  his  quivering  lips. 

"  Et  takes  time,  Lyddy,"  said  Joe,  tremulously,  "  et 
takes  time,  and  a  heap  o'  showin'  ter  make  things  come 
right." 

One  sunny  afternoon  during  the  rainy  season's  Janu- 
ary vacation,  a  party  of  sportsmen,  evidently  from  the 
city,  pulled  up  before  the  house  and  asked  for  water. 
Joe  was  sitting  on  the  veranda  alone,  smoking  his  pipe. 
He  invited  them  to  the  well  and  drew  the  water  him- 
self. The  members  of  the  party  were  rather  coarse- 
appearing  men,  perhaps  from  the  bar-room,  but  they 
bore  themselves  with  a  quiet,  good-natured  enjoyment 
of  everything  that  won  Joe's  heart. 

"  I  don't  see  much  o'  city  folks,"  said  Joe,  as  they 
finished  drinking,  "  'n'  I'd  like  ter  hev  ye  set  yer  fur 
awhile,  ef  ye  like.  I  hevn't  but  the  edge  o'  the 
v'randy  'n'  the  grass  ter  offer  ye  (o'  course  ye'd  like 
ter  set  'n  the  sun),  but  make  yerselves  's  comfortable 
's  ye  ken.  From  'Frisco,  I  s'pose?  Was  down  't  the 
city  myself  nigh  three  months  past." 

"  Why,  old  boy,"  spoke  up  one  of  the  party,  "  that's 
so ;  how  d'  ye  do  ?  " 

Joe  looked  at  the  stranger  curiously.  In  spite  of  a 
low  forehead  and  a  certain  hard  cast  to  his  face,  he 
was  a  handsome  fellow,  and  carried  himself  with  a 
careless,  jaunty  swing. 

"  Well,  I  swear,"  said  Joe,  "you  beat  me.  I  can't 
place  ye." 

"  My    name    is    Howard.     I    met    you    going    into 


256  Within  My  Horizon 

Lyddy's.     You    remember    Lyddy  ?  " —  with    a    leer. 

"  I  should  say  I  did  —  I  should  say  I  did.  Now  sit 
down  yer !  all  o'  ye.  Seems  to  me  I  do  recollect  seein' 
ye  onct  fur  a  minnit.  Name's  Howard;  'n'  ye  know 
Lyddy!" 

"  Who's  Lyddy?  "  inquired  one  of  the  party. 

"  Lyddy?  "  Howard  tossed  his  head.  "  Oh,  Lyddy 
was  a  gay  girl !  " 

"  So  she  was,"  put  in  Joe. 

"  Expect  we  never  knew  her,"  put  in  another. 

"  No,  I  think  not.  She  was  my  — "  Howard 
smiled  significantly. 

"  Oh !  "  His  friends  turned  away  indifferently. 
Joe  relighted  his  pipe  and  sat  down  beside  Howard  on 
the  steps.  The  rest  threw  themselves  carelessly  on  the 
grass,  laughing  and  joking  with  one  another. 

"  Ye  must  a  been  kind  o'  soft  on  Lyddy,"  Joe  ob- 
served, purring. 

Howard  laughed.  "  Oh,  well,  if  you  call  it  that. 
But  she  gave  me  the  slip,  all  the  same." 

"  I  s'pose,  Mr.  Howard," — after  a  pause,  removing 
the  pipe  from  his  mouth, — "  I  s'pose  ye  wouldn't  keer 
ter  meet  Lyddy  jest  now?  " 

"  I  should  say  I  would !  "  he  answered. 

Joe  turned  around.     "  Lyddy!  "  he  called,  softly. 

There  was  the  sudden  rustle  of  a  dress  within  the 
house.     Howard  started. 

"  I  thought  I'd  s'prise  ye,"  said  Joe,  his  face  beam- 
ing. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say,"  whispered  Howard,  in- 
credulously, "that  Lydia  is  here  —  with  you?" 

Joe  nodded  his  head  slowly  with  mingled  pride  and 


Lyddy  257 

embarrassment.  Howard  laughed  through  his  teeth 
—  a  disagreeable,  grating  laugh. 

Joe  colored.  "  Seems  queerish,  does  it?  So  't  did 
ter  me  't  first ;  reely,  I  couldn't  reelize  it  more  'n  you 
— •  sech  a  gel's  Lyddy.     But  't  so,  Lyddy's  my  wife." 

Howard  ceased  laughing.  "  What,  married  to 
you!  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  loud  voice. 

The  others  looked  up.     Joe's  face  was  hot. 

"  I  suppose  marriage  is  one  of  your  d — d  high 
notions,"  he  added,  contemptuously. 

"How!     Noshuns?     What  d'  ye  mean?" 

Howard  looked  amazed.  "  Is  it  possible  that  you 
don't  know  — "  He  bent  forward  and  whispered  in 
Joe's  ear. 

"Hey?  What  d'  ye  say?"  Joe  smiled,  with  an 
effort,  as  though  the  point  of  an  intended  joke  had 
escaped  him.  Then  the  meaning  of  Howard's  words 
burst  upon  him.     He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"D — n  ye,  ye  lie!"  he  cried,  striking  the  man  a 
blow  in  the  face. 

Howard,  staggering  to  his  feet,  pulled  out  a  re- 
volver, but  his  companions,  who  had  rushed  forward, 
seized  his  arm,  and  held  him  fast.  His  eyes  were 
ablaze. 

"  Curse  you  !  "  he  hissed  ;  "  you'll  be  sorry  for  this  !  " 

Joe  hesitated.  Perhaps  he  had  been  hasty.  There 
was  no  mistaking  the  man's  words,  but,  then,  possibly 
he  was  not  in  earnest.  "  I'm  rather  blunt,  mebby,  but 
ye  was  lvin' —  jokin',  T  would  say  —  wasn't  ye?  " 

"  Not  by  a  d — n  sight !  "  cr'ed  Howard.  "  I  told 
the  truth.  Why  not  ask  Lyddy?  'Sech  a  gel's 
Lyddy,'  you  know,  she'd  tell  you." 


258  Within  My  Horizon 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  step  within  the  bedroom. 
Lydia  must  have  heard  all.  Joe's  fingers  twitched. 
How  he  would  like  to  throttle  this  fellow;  and  yet, 
might  it  not  be  true?  There  rushed  through  his  mind 
what  Lydia  had  said  that  night  by  the  Gate.  Then  she 
had  tried  to  tell  him,  but  —  her  heart  had  failed. 
Poor  Lydia,  had  she  not  suffered  day  by  day  in  silence 
and  alone  ?  Had  she  not  been  abused  —  great  God, 
outraged !  by  —  by  this  wretch  ?  Joe  clenched  his 
hands. 

"  Look  ye !  Lyddy  may  hev  been  bad,  ef  ye  call  't 
so,  but  she  was  true  t'  ye,  I'll  swear  that;  'n'  was  ye 
true  ter  Lyddy?  By  law  she  wa'n't  yourn;  yet  she 
gave  ye  her  hull  trust.  Think  ye!  was  ye  faithful  to 
it?  — afore  God!" 

Joe  stood  there,  his  hard-worked  shoulders  almost 
straight,  in  his  simple  dignity.  The  members  of  the 
little  group  surrounding  Howard  stood  silent  and  ex- 
pectant. 

Howard  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Oh,  well,  I 
don't  claim  to  be  an  angel.  When  a  woman  makes  a 
fool  of  herself  — " 

Joe  took  a  step  forward.     His  whole  body  trembled. 

"  There's  times  when  the  Lord  Hisself'll  smile  on 
a  woman's  sin ;  'n'  when  'n  spite  'o  'buse,  'n'  sufferin', 
'n'  downtroddin'  a  gel  '11  cling  t'  a  man  till  the  last 
straw's  throwed  on;  even  ef  there  ain't  no  marriage, 
I'll  drop  down  'n'  worship  her.  'N'  you  —  you  that 
came  yer  t'  sneer  about  't  — " 

Joe  pointed  to  the  road  — "  Go !  " 

Howard's  companions  pressed  around  and  forced 
him  away. 


Lyddy  259 

"  My  regards  to  Lyddy !  "  he  called.  "  My  regards 
to  Lyddy,  and  — " 

Some  one  silenced  him. 

Joe  stood  there  till  the  party  was  out  of  sight,  and 
then  slowly  entered  the  house.  He  stepped  to  the  bed- 
room door;  it  was  ajar;  he  thought  he  heard  a  move- 
ment within. 

"  Lyddy !  "  he  called  softly. 

No  answer. 

"  Lyddy,  be  you  ther?  " 

Still  no  answer.  He  pushed  the  door  open. 
Lydia  was  not  there.  A  window-shade  fluttered  by 
the  breeze  was  the  movement  he  had  heard.  He 
looked  about  the  room.  The  bed  showed  an  impress 
as  though  Lydia  had  knelt  there,  and  a  mat  by  its  side 
was  half  upturned.  On  a  bureau,  lying  in  a  pool  of  its 
own  making,  was  a  wet  pen  hastily  thrown  down.  It 
lay  by  a  sheet  of  paper ;  and  on  the  paper  was  written : 
'  Good,  kind  Joe.  Good-bye."  That  was  all.  Be- 
low lay  the  little  gold  wedding-ring  Joe  had  given  her. 
He  took  up  the  ring  in  a  dazed  way.  The  truth  flashed 
upon  him. 

"Oh,  God  —  God!"  he  groaned;  "she  feared  me, 
'n'  's  gone  back  ter  him!  " 

He  threw  himself  down  by  the  bed,  and  the  ring, 
slipping  from  his  fingers,  bounded,  with  a  faint 
tinkle,  across  the  floor. 

The  breeze  was  yet  stirring  when  Joe  left  the  house. 
He  bared  his  head  to  it,  and  walked  away  in  feverish 
haste.  The  house  was  stifling,  and  so  dreadfully  still! 
He  came  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  Here,  where  Lydia 
and  he  had  sat  and  talked  so  often;  here,  where  Lvdia 


260  Within  My  Horizon 

had  so  loved  to  think,  he  knelt  down  and  looked  earn- 
estly into  the  dark  waters  —  the  peaceful  dark  waters ! 

"  Poor  Lyddy!  poor  Lyddy!  "  he  murmured,  cover- 
ing his  face  with  his  rough  hands,  while  tears,  breaking 
through,  one  by  one,  fell  to  the  ground.  Once  in  a 
while,  above  the  plashing  of  the  falls,  there  arose  a 
moaning  sound,  the  evening  cry  of  some  bird,  perhaps 
—  oh,  so  sad  and  lonely,  so  much  like  a  cry  from  his 
own  heart !     He  leaned  far  over  and  listened. 

"  It's  the  woman !  "  he  whispered.  "  She's  comin' 
out  to-night,  'n'  she's  callin'  for  me.  I  see  her  face, 
but  it's  on  the  rocks,  'n' — " 

"  Lyddy !  Lyddy !  "  he  shouted,  in  agony. 

He  started  up,  looked  around,  and  ran  wildly  to  the 
old  ford,  half-way  back  to  the  house.  Then  springing 
over  rocks,  and  slipping  over  wet  stones,  he  rushed 
down  the  canyon,  splashing  the  water  right  and  left. 
"Lyddy!  Lyddy!  I'm  comin'!"  he  shouted,  again 
and  again.  Nearer  and  nearer  came  his  call,  and  at 
last,  hot  and  panting,  Joe  threw  himself  by  her  side. 
He  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Don't,  don't,  Joe !  "  she  cried,  in  pain.  "  Don't 
move  me !  "  And  he  laid  her  down  again,  away  from 
the  rocks,  on  a  clear  place  in  the  sand. 

"  I  think,"  she  whispered  — "  I  think  it's  most  over." 

"Oh,  Lyddy,  don't  say  that!  I'll  get  help,  'n' — " 
but  she  whispered  to  him  more  faintly,  and  he  had  to 
keep  still  and  listen. 

"  It's  no  use;  I  feel  it.      Stay  by  me!  " 

He  took  off  his  coat,  and,  rolling  it  into  a  pillow, 
placed  it  under  her  head.     As  he  did  so,  he  laid  his 


Lyddy  261 

hot  cheek,  wet  with  tears,  on  hers.  She  looked  up, 
with  pleading  eyes. 

"  I  was  going  to  jump  into  the  pool;  but  I  didn't  — 
I  fell." 

Joe  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands.  His  throat 
seemed  closed. 

"  Joey," — weakly  — "  Howard  told  you  all,  and  you 
cannot  forgive  me.     You  do  not  love  me  now." 

"  God !  do  you  s'pose  I  could  stop  lovin'  you, 
Lyddy?" 

A  faint  flush  came  into  her  cheeks. 

"  He  told  you  all,  and  you  still  love  me?  Oh,  put 
my  arms  about  you,  Joey !  " 

He  tenderly  took  her  arms  and  drew  them  around 
his  neck.     A  great  sob  shook  his  frame. 

"  And  you  did  love  me  all  along,  Lyddy?  " 

With  the  little  strength  that  was  left  in  her  arms, 
perhaps  the  very  weight  of  them,  she  drew  his  head  to 
her,  and  held  him  close. 

"  Joey,"  she  murmured,  "  next  to  the  great  God 
above,  that  perhaps  I'll  meet  —  next  to  Him,  Joey,  I 
love  you !  " 

And  with  her   face  close  to  his,  she  whispered : 

"  That  night  —  that  you  first  said  —  you  loved  me 

—  Howard  wanted  —  me  to  get  —  your  money.  I 
wouldn't  —  and  he  —  he  beat  me  !  " 

Joe  raised  his  head.  She  opened  her  eyes  and 
looked  at  him. 

"  Oh,  Joey  —  I'm  so  glad  —  I  didn't  fall  —  into  the 

—  pool  —  and  —  drown  !  " 

Her  arms   fell    from   his  neck.      He   took'  one  poor 


262  Within  My  Horizon 

hand,  white  and  limp,  and  pressed  it  to  his  wet  cheek. 
For  a  moment  their  lips  met,  and  then  her  eyes,  tender 
and  moist  with  a  last  happiness,  were  fixed  on  the  blue 
sky  above. 

And  the  little  falls  in  soft  plashes  whispered  to  the 
passing  breeze,  and  the  passing  breeze  caught  up  a 
fluttering  soul  and  bore  it  away.  And  away  off  above 
the  clouds  —  where  you  and  I  have  no  judgment,  my 
friend  —  it  was  decided  whether  this  soul  was  so  very, 
very  black. 


THE   END 


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